Half-Step Behind
by Xerogen
Summary: Escaping Asgard and the horrors dealt there is no easy task, and doing so comes at a price. Loki falls to Earth broken and blinded, rendered helpless in a city he can neither see nor begin to understand with enemies on all sides. Worse than that is a far greater emptiness in his veins—a vital piece of him that should have been impossible to take, yet was rent from his body anyway.
1. Darkness

_**Warnings:** Graphic violence, drug abuse, self-harm, suicide attempt, past torture, past child death, brief mentions of rape, mental health issues, and some really damn questionable Asgardian morals._

_If you have a trigger you're concerned about running across, feel free to shoot me a message or hit up the ask box on my tumblr, aconitine-apothecary (probably a bit more reliable), and I'll let you know if it's anywhere in the story._

* * *

When he'd first been forced to his knees and sentenced, the gilded halls and gleaming marble floors mocking the once-and-should-be king, he had been afraid. He never showed it, staring as calmly and impassively as ever at the (once) father before him as the prophecies played out. The sun was setting, casting long shadows as its golden face sank beneath the horizon and throwing a rainbow into the sky to match the Bifrost's glory. And wasn't that just the most suiting metaphor? The beginning of the end. The bringer of twilight. The pieces were being gathered for the last great acts of chaos and fire—the terror of a monster scorned.

Thor advanced toward him, his eyes colder than Jötunheim's cruel frost, and for a fraction of a second the silver in his hand caught a sliver of light and shone brighter than the Tesseract. That cruel and torturous cube which he had never truly meant to take, only ever borrow for learning's sake… Knowledge had always been his one great weakness, and education his drug of choice. The jewel of Odin's many conquests—how could he have ever resisted?

But then he fell. Cast himself into nothingness in the hopes it would finally end, except that freedom never came—he just kept falling, dropping through Yggdrasil's branches and the horrors of the abyss. Still he kept his mind intact, his one treasure even as terror gripped him all the stronger, but it was not enough.

Not when he was gripped tight by Him and landed on that place between realms.

He can't remember how it happened, or when—his memory is hazy, as if his body knows that to remember would be worse than death—only remembers the strangled scream. A pain so great that it shattered him, the feeling of being torn apart as his very essence was stripped from him. It was as though every molecule was rent in two and his body razed to the ground with the loss.

His magic, the treasure that made him _Loki,_ was gone.

It should not have been possible, to take such a thing from him. Not even the Allfather in all his power could have done it. Perhaps the emptiness of the abyss had already begun to claim and unravel him. If only he could have kept falling. Surrender. Die.

When He asked him to find it, he somehow managed to resist. Days, months, years, who knew in that poisonous berry on some strangling vine of the world tree.… But when the staff was placed in his hand, its power a soothing balm to the searing void within him, he could fight no more. With a suggestion planted and a madness growing, not even for a realm of innocents could he struggle against Him.

So he had stumbled into the darkness of a new realm—that awful thing He had slipped into his mind twisting every seed of grief, and fear, and rage into a blazing flame of murderous intent—and burned the world to the ground.

(Never had Thor noticed. Not the way he hesitated, the way he drew together the perfect team to stop him. Not the way his once shining green eyes had slipped to the hazel that had been gone since he was barely five hundred years old, nor the way that he was careless in each and every action, all a show and no subtlety. He'd never looked. Never seen. Never cared.)

Thus was he forced to nearly kowtow to his kidnapper—the man who had dared to call a monster son—condemned to eternal torture without so much as a word in his defence. Thor, who had so desperately called him brother even when blinded to the truth of his motivations, held him to the ground and pulled the leather roughly through his skin with no glint of remorse in his eyes. Not even when the first tears his younger brother had shed in front of him since he'd gained his magic traced paths down his cheeks. The prince had sewn his mouth shut and silenced the truth on the liesmith's tongue.

Oh, he'd thought that was pain.

He'd balked at the dankness of the cave, the stone like ice against his back as he was held roughly against it, and seen the snake and known terror as he realized what was coming. Never had he dared to imagine _true_ horror. Now the acidic venom that seared its way across the bridge of his nose, over his eyes, and down his temples became the sweetest relief. Without even knowing it, He had been right.

He welcomed this pain.

(His sons, his beautiful youngest sons, twins with curling hair that shone like the palace itself… hardly five hundred years themselves. Váli, his saintly child, starved and turned into a wolf. Narfi, quiet and confused until the painful screams rang out. Their entrails turned to iron bindings, their only crime his name. Yes, pain was a merciful boon.)

Time passed and nobody came—out of fear or of apathy he couldn't say—until one day he had struggled enough. In the purest form of agony he'd slipped his bonds, fallen to the frozen dirt, and dug shallow graves in the snow to give what small amount of respect he could for his innocent boys. Only then did he tear the stitches from his mouth and howl like some wild thing in absolute grief.

Light never welcomed him back into her bosom.

He'd walked for days, constantly tripping over brush and falling headfirst into trees or stone, and the descent of winter brought with it a chill great enough to tear down his Ás glamor. Still he'd struggled onwards until he'd found a hidden path, long forgotten and unmentioned in the ancient texts he'd poured over for so many centuries, whose warm embrace seared like fire even as the glamor reclaimed its hold.

–

He wakes into darkness, rough brick at his back and the rancid smell of half-burnt oil hanging in the air. It takes many dragging minutes before he can parse the cacophony of noise into its pieces after so long in silence, but slowly he manages to pick out the grumble of motors, din of conversation, and wailing cry of a siren somewhere in the distance.

Midgard. A city.

Yet still, there is nothing but a smothering blanket of nothingness—different and less painful than when his magic was torn from him, perhaps, but tragic nonetheless.

Someone calls angrily, and again. Another voice joins it. Male, he thinks? The words are mangled, and spoken with a strange accent that he half-remembers as if from a dream.

_English,_ his mind supplies after too long a pause. He's shoved roughly back against the grating rasp of the building and feels frantically for anything he can use to get his bearings, but finds nothing. One of them grabs him by the shirt, but even emaciated as he is they cannot lift him. Instead they punch him in the gut, yelling, but his mind cannot translate quickly enough to make sense of the sounds. It's been centuries since last he used the Allspeak, longer since he did so for any length of time, and translating spells are useless without power to back them with so everything is just incomprehensible noise. They punch him again, this time in the jaw, and his instincts finally kick in. He grabs the person (man?) by the throat and holds him against the wall, snarling back in his native tongue a threat to break his neck, but three sets of hands not weakened with starvation and pain pull him back, beating him until he slumps to the wet ground and stops struggling.

It feels like an eternity before they leave him, broken and bruised in a world he can neither see nor comprehend. He gives into sleep there.

A hand on his shoulder, gentler this time, wakes him.

"Sir, are you hurt?"

He manages to push himself off the ground to look toward the source of the sound. He tries to talk, to respond, but his throat is like sandpaper and he only manages a pained choke.

"Woah, easy there," the voice tells him. "Take your time. What's your name?"

Swallowing a few times does little to soothe the burn. "L– Loki." His mind isn't functioning quickly enough to realize that on Midgard, perhaps it is wiser to keep his identity concealed. Hopefully the voice won't make the connection.

"Can you walk?"

He forces his back to yield to his will, and stifles a moan as it screams in pain. His legs fare hardly better, but he manages to stand. He reaches for a wall, entirely disoriented, and has to take a few steps before the uneven edge of the brick scratches his fingertips.

"Where–?" He doesn't quite manage the rest of the sentence but the voice answers anyway.

"Forty-seventh street, New York City."

He hisses. Could that wretched path have led anywhere worse than the home of his enemies? But no matter, he holds little fear of them anymore—after all, what else can they take from him of consequence? He takes a few uncertain steps forward, his hand following the bumps in the brick, and runs his foot into something before stopping short. His heart speeds as he realizes he has no way to navigate, not with his two strongest senses stripped of him. The voice seems to catch on.

"You can't see?"

An off-balance laugh forces its way through his cracked lips. "Not unless the veil of darkness has suddenly wrapped this world in her embrace."

"Is this what took your sight, then?"

A shaky breath that threatens to break into a manic giggle. "That depends heavily on your interpretation of 'this.' It was not those foul wretches, as I assume you mean." He runs his fingers across the slick surface of the object he nearly ran into. Plastic, wet with rain; a seam runs along the side and there's a ridge below it. One of the boxes the mortals put their refuse in? It hardly matters.

"I'm to your left. Take my arm, above the elbow, and stay about half a pace behind me. I can lead you."

He's got no other option, really. Follow a voice he cannot identify, or stumble blindly about until he dies or is killed. The voice (man? Man.) leads him out of the alleyway and into the chaos of the crowd. He follows nervously, starting at every brush of an arm against his, but the man is patient and warns him about potential obstacles in his way.

"There's a street here, and the crosswalk doesn't have any aural cues. You have to listen to the cars traveling perpendicular to you to stop, and try to be aware of anyone turning right. When it stops, you can cross. Small step down," he warns, then leads him across the street.

"My name's Matt, by the way. My place is a ways away and I was already going to work, so I hope my office is alright. It's pretty small, only two other people and there shouldn't be anyone else for a few hours at least. That alright?"

He stumbles, tripping over his feet and tightening his grip on the man's arm.

"Woah, easy there. I'm not going to let you get hurt, don't worry. Here, building's on your right. Three steps up. Door pulls out, the hinge is on your right." He hears the jingle of keys and the solid thunk of a deadbolt turning.

"Follow my arm to the handle."

He does, and turns the knob to pull it open.

The man steps through the door, allowing him to follow before taking his arm again, and locks the door behind him.

"Not business hours yet, and Karen won't be in for a bit longer so it's just me and Foggy. Hey! Foggy!"

Heavy footsteps, then a pause. "Where the hell did you pick him up, Matt? What the hell happened?"

"Two blocks down in the alleyway. Can you grab the med kit? I think Karen moved it under the sink."

A rustle of fabric. "Yeah, sure. Just a sec."

Loki staggers and the man steadies him with his other hand. "Hey, come here. There's a chair a pace and a half to your ten o' clock."

It takes him a moment to figure out how Midgardian clocks look and in his moment of hesitation the man's already helped guide him. He sinks heavily into a high-backed chair that's the softest thing he's felt in what have literally been years. He sighs in relief.

The heavy footsteps return. "Here you go. What the fuck happened to him? He looks like he's been to hell and back!"

He chuckles darkly. "Oh, if only. I would welcome the relief and the reunion with my daughter and sons."

The second voice (Foggy, had he said?) doesn't respond for a second. "Are you blind? I'm just going by the scars here, but honestly I don't see how you can't be."

He just nods. His throat hurts too much to waste his voice on trivial things.

"Matt, I'm not really sure how to respond except to say that I never thought the blind leading the blind would be quite so relevant."

Something that sounds metal is set down and a latch clicks open. Papers rustle and glass clinks against something else. His attention is only vaguely drawn, the rest of it lies with the previous statement.

"You–" he coughs and his throat makes its protest known, "You're blind?"

"Sure am. Have been since I was a kid. I'm guessing it's new enough for you that you haven't adapted much yet?"

He coughs again, harder this time. "That depends on your meaning of new. If you mean when the acid first started to burn then it was some time ago. I don't remember. If you mean when I woke up in the streets in total darkness, then it was not long before you found me."

"Foggy, go grab a glass of water, would you? And, Loki, was it? I'm not sure what you're implying and it doesn't sound good, but for now I'm going to try and focus on getting you fixed up. Judging from Foggy's reaction it's a lot worse than I can tell, because he's seen me pretty beaten up before. What's the worst of your injuries, do you know?"

"My answers to all your questions are most likely conditional, so I will do my best to follow the meaning I believe you intend. I apologize in advance if I fail to do as such, my mind is in... other places at present. As for physical injuries, I believe the acid burns have mostly healed, although they still sting. My eyesight is most likely the largest issue, but there's nothing to be done for it. A bone in my arm feels out of place, and the rest is minor injury from the Hel-hated miscreants in the alleyway." He hisses as something cool and damp stings at one of the deeper cuts. It smells like alcohol. "I haven't eaten in some time though, so if it would not be too much of a trouble I would appreciate a meal. I'm afraid I have nothing to pay with."

"Not a problem. You have a place nearby?"

Another sting at an open wound. "Not as such. I highly doubt I have anywhere, now. Do not fear I will impose on you, whatever my current state I was still taught manners." Heavy footsteps return, a little slower this time, and a rustle of fabric.

"Hold out your hand? The non-broken arm."

He does, and a glass is pressed into it. He sniffs at the liquid inside.

"Don't worry, it's just water. Drink, slowly."

He complies, and it's the closest to Valhalla he'll probably ever get. He wants to drink it all down, he's not had a drop of water on his tongue since the Battle begun and who knows how long ago that was, but if he does he know's he'll likely throw up and make things worse. So he sips at it measuredly, savoring every drop. "Thank the norns."

He drops his head back against the chair with a sigh.

"Who did this to you?" the heavier one asks.

He laughs brokenly, grip on the glass nearly hard enough to shatter it. Realizing this he feels beside him and finds a wooden surface where he sets it down with a clink. "Many hands. The worst my would-be father and brother, although I believe the bone was originally broken by the beast and they only served to worsen it. There were others there, but I forget all but two of their faces. Others from this place, yet another from a place between. I should not be so surprised, I have known for a long time now how this ends."

"And how's that?" the first man asks.

"Twilight." Not that they will know the meaning, the old ways have fallen to obscure legend on Midgard. No longer do they remember their gods, not even the benevolent. Perhaps it's suiting.

"I can set your arm here, or we can go to the hospital if you prefer. I don't have plaster here so I'll have to makeshift a cast."

"No–" The water helped but his throat still aches in protest. "No hospitals. They'll find me." Another rustle of fabric, a single light footstep.

"The people who did this to you?"

He nods. People or monsters, what's the difference? They'll find him anyway given enough time, but he has no desire to aid the process.

"Give me just a moment, I'll be back in a sec."

There's a quiet pause, and the other voice speaks.

"More water?"

His body aches with want. "Half a glass, if you would, with a spoon or two of sugar and a bit of salt if you can spare it. You have my thanks." A tiny ring of fingers brushing on glass and the footsteps retreat, leaving him alone. He readjusts a bit, trying not to further injure himself before he realizes it's a pointless pursuit.

Light footsteps return.

"Loki. I feel like I've heard the name. Should I know you?" Something metal is laid on the table with a thunk. "Hold out your arm. I need to find where the break is, but I'll do my best not to hurt you any more than necessary."

The man's fingers ghost over his arm, slowly searching for the injured area. "I have few doubts you have heard my– ah! That's it, there."

"Yeah, it's pretty swollen. How long's it been broken?"

He can't remember. The time all began to blur into a never ending darkness. "Months? I lost track of time. It won't need to be re-broken, though, my bones will not heal much out of place."

"Okay, I'm going to try and reposition it, this is going to hurt."

He clenches his jaw and grips the arm of the chair, stifling a whine of pain as the bone clicks back into place. His next breath is shaky, but the pain has already started to subside. "You no doubt have heard of me. It would not benefit either of us, I don't think, if you were to think too hard on where."

A pause.

"I suppose that's fair enough, as long as you don't try to kill me or anything."

Soft gauze is wrapped around his arm, up over his thumb and around his hand to keep it in place. A tear of fabric, and some sort of adhesive, he assumes, is used to hold it. The object on the table is removed with a scrape and pressed under his arm, bending slightly under his palm.

"Don't ask why I have arm splints laying around, you'd be surprised how many bone's I've broken. Long story. Hey Foggy!"

The man returns and sets a glass back on the table.

"Sorry, you know how I am about stuff like that. Not exactly a fan of watching."

"Can you call Karen and see if she can pick up some plaster on her way here?"

"Sure."

Footsteps retreat. He feels for the glass, fingers closing around its cool surface.

Another light pressure on his arm, more gauze he guesses, to keep the splint on. A rustle of plastic and something else, and a cooling weight is lowered onto his arm.

"Hold that there for now, it should take the swelling down a bit. It's a bit early in the day for delivery, but the Chinese place a block down should be open. Is rice okay? It's probably good if you don't eat too much to start out if you haven't for a while."

He has no idea what rice is. It's not like he's spent an overly large amount of time on Midgard recently, but it's food so he nods.

"Cool. I'll have Foggy order some when he's done talking to Karen. Want some Tylenol to help the pain? Assuming you're not allergic."

The name sounds familiar. Some sort of Midgardian medicine. "What's it made of? Elementally?"

"Acetaminophen? I don't know the chemical formula, but I can look it up. Just a sec."

He nods. There aren't many of Midgard's chemicals that are poisonous to those of Asgard, but in his state it's probably best not to risk it. There's a light tap and the man speaks.

"Chemical composition of acetaminophen."

A pause.

"Chemical composition of acetaminophen is C8H9NO2," a strangely stilted female voice replies.

He thinks for a moment, converting the Midgardian terms into ones he is more familiar with. "That should be alright. What's the dosage?"

"Two five hundred milligram pills, every six hours."

"Triple it."

A rattle and a click. "I don't know if that's a great idea. I didn't just fix you up to have you overdose on Tylenol."

He rolls his eyes in exasperation. "I could probably take four times the human dose with no side effects. Three times is playing it safe."

"You're not human?"

He laughs, then winces as the movement sends a sharp pain down his side. "Not last time I checked."

"Guess I'll trust your judgement, then. Hand?"

He holds it out and six pills are placed in it. He swallows them dry.

"Give it ten or fifteen minutes. I'm not sure how much it will help, but it should take the edge off."

The pill bottle clicks closed again. The heavier man returns and is sent back to the phone again with instructions to order food from the Chinese place, and he complains that he's not an errand boy. The other man says something but he's stopped bothering to translate. Between the effort of doing so and the pain that still burns through his body like flames, exhaustion takes hold and he slips into sleep. Some time later a gentle touch on his shoulder wakes him and he blinks awake slowly only to remember that he can't see. The man says something, he hears the word 'rice.'

Ah, yes, food. He straightens up and takes the warm box that is handed to him along with a fork (flexible, made of plastic? Midgardians are strange creatures).

"Slowly, remember."

The warmth of the food is even better than the water, he thinks. He chews carefully and does his best not to over-indulge and make things worse later on—it's not the first time he's been starved, he knows how it works and how to eat afterwards. This time is more acute, having gone so long, but the principle is the same. When he finishes some time later, the man speaks.

"Karen's here and brought plaster so I can finish up on the cast. That okay with you?"

He nods. The sound of water, something hitting the side of glass (a bowl, he thinks), and the bag of ice is removed in favor of spreading plaster over the gauze. "You are practiced at this. Not in the way of a healer, but in the way of a warrior who must mend his own wounds."

"I have my reasons."

He doesn't push, just as the man has not pushed about anything he has said no matter how strange his words must seem. "You have my thanks. It is not often that I am offered aid without the promise of... considerable reward."

"Well, technically I expect you not to kill me, and I think my life counts as a considerable reward," the man jokes.

He allows himself a small smile. "I suppose so."

"You said you don't have a place to stay. I've got a spare room, if you want, and my place is probably easier for you to navigate since I set it up for, well, me. To be navigable in the dark, I guess you could say. I can help you get used to blindness too, if you want, I've certainly got the experience."

His instinctual distrust kicks back in at last, thank the norns, at this rate it's a miracle he hasn't gotten himself killed yet. "I don't think that will be necessary. It would be a burden to you and I dislike being in another's debt. I can find my own way."

"Right. What are you going to do when you walk out that door into the crowd that you can't see? How do you cross the street, or know which door is which?"

Oh. Right. Norns.

"Look, you don't owe me anything. I want to help, and I know what it's like to go blind. I can teach you how to get around, how to cook and read, how to make sure you don't put a blue plaid shirt with red striped pants..."

"Owning either of those would just be in poor taste."

The man laughs. "True, but you get the point. Don't worry about inconveniencing me because it's not a problem."

There's is one problem, though. "Any prolonged contact with me puts you in danger."

"I can handle myself."

Humans. Thinking they're so invincible even when their lives are barely long enough to have evolved at all. "I do not think you understand the gravity of the situation. It would be a shame for you to die because you were feeling kind."

"Like I said, I can handle myself. If it comes down to it, I know how to fight, and hopefully it won't anyway. You need the help, I can give it. It's that simple. Come on, I can take you back there and teach you the basics if you want. There are only a few clients coming in today and Foggy can pick up the one or two who were mine. Let me grab you a sling for your arm and we can head out."

* * *

_**Author's Note:**_

_My general headcanon is that Old Norse is an offshoot of the Asgardian language, assimilated by the Norse people during the Æsir/Jötunn war, and as such when Loki speaks in his native language that's what it'll be based off of. I'm actually going to use Icelandic, since it's incredibly well-preserved and for the most part lines up with Old Norse, but is much easier to translate back and forth from._

_By the way, I'm not going to demonize Thor too much here, things will make more sense as the story moves forward._

_(also, I know that "twilight of the gods" is a mistranslation, but the metaphor is fitting so i'm using it anyway)_


	2. Music

Central Park is his favorite place in New York, he thinks. The openness was daunting at first, with no walls to trail—just space in every direction, and if he got lost... But he's learned to navigate using the edges of the paths as a guide, knows how to get from his little apartment in Hell's Kitchen to the fountains, the zoo (hearing the different animals had been strange at first), and especially the best spot of all – a bench near the Pond. It's a little out of the way but it's nice. He can hear the wind in the trees, the lap of the water and the flap of bird's wings, the mothers and their children behind him on the path, the school groups, and the crunch of gravel under horse's feet when mounted police ride by. He can feel the warmth of the sunlight on his face and in the summer his black hair would become hot to the touch. As the seasons had turned and the crunch of leaves signaled the coming of fall he could smell the difference in the air, less sweet and more earthy. And that was true, Earth smelled different than Asgard. It was a pleasant change.

It's on that bench that he tends to play, the pleasant vibration of the strings traveling down the bow through his arm as the violin sings (and each violin has it's own little difference in the way it sounds; he tried dozens before he found this one). He leaves the case open and sometimes people drop money in that he usually gives to a few homeless families he knows, but that's not really why he plays. He plays because it's indiscriminate. It's his, had been even before everything back when he'd first heard his mother playing, and then the Fossegrimen had helped him perfect his technique for a small cut of meat he'd stolen from the kitchens when the cook's back was turned. In the music he can lose himself, close his eyes and forget the blindness. Forget the scars that cross from one temple to the other, the ones on his jaw and across his collarbone. The half-healed holes over and under his lips from when his once-brother had proven his loss of love and the ones on his ankles and wrists where he'd struggled against the bonds. None of that exists here in between the phrases, the dissonance and descant each in their measure and the sweet haunt of his own arias. This is his escape.

The crunch of leaves behind him alerts him to another's presence. They're uneven, lighter at some times than others as if whoever it is tries to hide their presence by jumping between the quieter patches (they fail quite miserably, though). For a moment he worries, but the person (man, from the cologne) doesn't seem to pose a threat and he can hear others nearby. There's a slight brush of fabric against his side and stops in the middle of a phrase.

"I may be blind, but I am hardly deaf." He moves the cane that the man had apparently decided to steal behind him on the bench and smirks. "Perhaps next time you should keep your footsteps more even and avoid the dead leaves."

"Dammit, I swear the world just decided to fuck with me today." Definitely a man. His hand grips the back of the bench and it bows slightly as he leans his weight into it. "I'm impressed you could hear me over your violin, though. So are you actually blind, or just pretending to get a bit more cash from the sympathetic mothers?"

He chuckles. "I am most definitely blind, and I think you will find that those who cannot see must learn to be more alert in a world such as this. Your voice sounds familiar, have we spoken before?"

"Not that I can remember," the man shifts his weight a bit, "but you've probably heard of me. I'll give you three guesses if you want. Ten bucks if you can figure out who I am."

He gathers the coins and bills in his violin case into a paper bag that fits into the outer pocket and lays the instrument in the velvet, feeling for the bow rest before sliding it in as well as he ponders. "I have heard you before yet you have never spoken to me directly, which means you must speak or perform in some sense. If you assume that I know who you are then that implies that your name is fairly well-known and from your voice you are confident enough about that fact to denote it has been for some time," he deduces, "but that only narrows it so much."

"Well aren't you just the Sherlock to my Watson."

Oh, right, the cocky attitude. That should help narrow it down. "The last time I met a man with quite your amount of arrogance it was–" And then it hits him, the recognition a flood of conflicting emotions. Anger and fear, primarily. He's not heard it in a year or so, had nearly forgotten it. He grips the bench hard enough that his knuckles are probably turning white.

"I'm waiting."

He drops his voice to a cold and deadly tone and turns with a dark glare. "Stark."

The weight on the bench vanishes abruptly. "Fucking hell!"

"Are two words you should never again speak in my presence if you wish your tongue to remain in your mouth. I may not have a knife on me, but I'm sure I could improvise with a spare violin string."

"But you're–"

"Careful there, Stark, don't strain yourself. I'd hate to see you give yourself a stroke because you were trying to use multi-syllabic words." His voice stays level but he maneuvers slowly to hold the cane between them.

"Loki!" His voice breaks halfway through and it comes out sounding like a squeak.

He scowls. "Very good. Now if you'll kindly put the ten dollars into my case and forget you ever saw me, I'll be on my way." He's freaking out a bit, but thousands of years of practice keep any emotion besides anger concealed.

"But you're–! Weren't you–? My scanners didn't– How did you–?"

"Ten dollars. Case."

He hears a rustle of fabric and the light rasp of paper when it's pushed into the case (the man's probably shocked enough to see him that it'll take him a few seconds to catch up, so he'd better make use of the time). He feels for the velcro and straps his violin in before latching the case (clunk snick) and stands, cane in hand.

"I would advise you not to tell anyone of our meeting if you care for your life. Kveðjum, Stark, and I sincerely hope we never see each other again." He walks pointedly away and doesn't hear footsteps so the idiot mortal is probably just staring in confusion. Good. He can get away.

He finds his way to Bethesda Fountain by memory, gliding the cane to the edge of the path and back to help guide him. Finding a place to sit is always the tricky part, there are usually other people there and it's a bit awkward to run into a steady line of others or their belongings. He ends up asking someone (and he hates, _hates_ having to rely on other people for such a simple task) and sits down on the rough concrete that's been warmed by the sunlight. The familiar trickle of the fountain is comforting, soothing the anxiety that all his months of practice and training have never been able to truly erase but only dampen. Had he his magic this would not be an issue, he could have easily sensed his way around even without healing himself, but it feels like half his connection with the outside world has been cut off and the weakness is terrifying. He trails his fingers through the cool water, enjoying the slight splash and subsequent ripple of it.

After a time he hears small, familiar footsteps rushing towards him and a gleeful cry of "Serrure!" His chosen name, an identity of Earth's own. French for "Lock," which he found humorous because nobody ever made the connection, not even Matt or Foggy (who he's taken to calling by his given name Franklin, because it seems more polite and even cast out of Asgard he's still a prince).

"Lee! Tessa!" he shouts and the two small children rush into his arms, "I'd feared you had forgotten about me!" The older of the two, Tessa, climbs into his arms and buries her face against his neck. He can feel her cheshire-sized grin and smiles as well. Lee has always been far shyer, and climbs onto the bench beside him.

"I couldn't forget about you, Serrure! You're my favorite!" she exclaims. He beams and ruffles her hair. "Will you play your violin for us?"

"I'm afraid I wouldn't know what to play! Have you any suggestions, Lee?"

The boy leans softly into Loki's arm as he wraps it around him, quiet in contemplation. "I like... I like Frére Jaques," he mumbles.

He unpacks the violin, but closes the case this time. "Will you sing along with me?" The girl replies enthusiastically and the boy nods. He picks up the violin and plays more softly than before, just for them as he forms the familiar tune (it's a favorite of Lee's) and embellishes liberally to harmonize as the two sing. They ask for a couple other songs and he improvises a few more, a little concert for three. They've become his favorites, both live with their mother, often sleeping in subway stations since her house was foreclosed on and she'd lost her job. The kids took it in stride, helping the best they could, but he's taken to watching them occasionally for her while she job-hunts. Sometimes it hurts to see them, but at the same time it helps to soothe the aching hole in his chest his boys had once filled.

After a time he packs up his violin and turns to them. "It's not late enough for dinner, but it's been some time since we last had crêpes. Does that sound good to you?"

Lee tugs on his sleeve. "Can I get the one with ice cream in it?" he asks hesitantly.

"I want the Nutella one!" the girl shouts, and he can hear the taps her shoes make as she bounces up and down.

He smiles at them and stands. "Of course you can. Lee, I do believe it's your turn?" Lee nods and he bends down beside him. The boy climbs onto the fountain and then onto Loki to ride piggy-back, and the girl presses the cane into his free hand. She leads him to a nearby crêpe stand and he orders for them along with a strawberry one for himself. The order comes to just over eleven dollars and he pays with a ten (folded length-wise) and a two ones (not folded at all). He's learned to pay in a way that he'll receive only ones and change in return, he's been cheated a few too many times by less-than-honorable salespeople. When he gets the change back he checks it, making sure dimes and quarters are ridged on the sides. Satisfied, he thanks the girl with a smile and hands the pastries to the children before taking his own and appreciating the warmth and sweet smell of fried dough and strawberries.

Tessa shows him to an empty bench (she's gotten used to the quirks of dealing with someone blind and knows what he needs and when he needs it) and they sit, just talking for a while about school and whatever else comes to mind. He offers counsel to Lee about standing up to a bully in class and how to walk with more confidence. Tessa gets help on her homework and he quizzes her on spelling and addition. It's a little domestic but he doesn't really mind – he never got to spend time with his own children even when they were young, so it's a welcome outlet for his neglected motherly and fatherly instincts. Plus their joy and enthusiasm towards life is refreshing, untampered by the pains of adulthood even in light of their situation.

He's checked his watch occasionally, flipping back the domed cover to feel the hands, and eventually it's time for them to go so they're not caught out after dark. He pulls out the paper bag and hands it to Tessa before unfolding his cane and standing.

"Be careful," he warns her. "Where are you sleeping?"

"Dunno," she replies, "Mom told us to meet'er at the seven terminal by forty-second so probably there somewhere."

He frowns. "No word from your father?"

"No... Mom's trying to find a job but it's not going good."

He ruffles her hair soothingly.

"I'm sure she'll find something soon. I'll keep an eye out, and if I know of anything I'll be sure to let you know. See you next weekend?"

"Yeah!" She grins and hugs his legs. He squeezes the boy's shoulder gently.

"Be good you two, and tell your mother I send my best regards."

He feels her nod before she steps back. "Thanks again, Serrure. Love you! Come on, Lee!" Her footsteps fade away and he runs a hand through his hair, a smile refusing to leave his face.

–

Three weeks later finds him in a small coffee shop that he's come to love. The baristas know him and what he likes, and tease him good-naturedly with threats that they'll draw something unseemly in his drink if he's not careful. He's learned the layout and has a favorite table near the back where he's surrounded by the smell of old books and freshly brewed coffee. It's a funny Midgardian drink, one that took a few tries to get used to, but he finds it pleasant and warming now. Plus the shop is usually quiet and he feels safe here even lost in a book.

It's probably because he's so engrossed that he doesn't hear the quiet footsteps approach and he jumps a good foot in the air when someone suddenly pokes him in the arm, nearly spilling his coffee. He turns to scowl at whoever interrupted. "Excuse me."

"Well, well well. Didn't expect to see you here, what was it? Serrure?"

He bristles and spits back, "I thought I told you not to follow me, Stark. Are you truly so unwise?" How much had he seen? Did this put the children in danger?

The chair scrapes against the floor as it's pulled out and Stark drops into it with a thunk. His plate clinks agains the inlaid marble chessboard in the table as he sets it down.

"Yeah, right, like I'm going to let Earth's Most Wanted wander off without checking him out."

He sips at his coffee, masking his unease with practiced grace. "I find your lack of faith disturbing. And don't think I didn't catch that double entendre, you should know I'm completely out of your league."

Stark scoffs at him, affronted. "I'll have you know that I'm one of the best-looking, richest, smartest men on this planet thank you very much." He taps on the book, which Loki had closed while he sat down. "I thought you were blind. Not doing a great job with that lie, buddy."

Ah. Of course. He hesitates, wondering if it would be better to pretend to have his sight, his power. Seem dangerous, or seem helpless? It's a lose-lose situation, but in the end he decides that hopefully if he seems harmless the Avenger won't hurt him. He feels for the worn cover of the well-referenced book (a guide to law he's been studying) and spins it to face the man. It opens with a thud and the paper rustles as he opens it to a random page. There's a moment of space before Stark speaks with sudden apprehension.

"Braille."

He nods and pulls the book back toward himself.

"So you're, like, actually blind? Sorry, just having a hard time with that since a year ago, you know, you were kind of blowing up Manhattan."

"Why do you think I didn't realize you were following me last time, or know it was you behind me until you spoke? Do you honestly think I have reason to pretend not to notice you interfering with my life?" He sets his mug down carefully, the same place he always does so he doesn't knock it over by mistake (though the baristas have taken to giving him heavier mugs to help out), and pulls his sunglasses off and folds them on the table in front of him. Pushing a stray lock of hair out of his face he raises his head, baring the scars for the man to see.

There are a few uncomfortable moments of silence and anxiety wells in his chest. This was a really, really bad idea. If Stark were to tell anyone, even hint that he was here, he'd be sent back to that _place_, that world of infinite pain and what if they killed more of his children? Sleipnir would be the easiest, though inconveniencing for Odin, or Fenrir if they dared. Jormungandr was further away but the least risk to them. Only Hela and now Vali and Narfi were safe.

"Well shit," the man says, seemingly at a loss for words. After a moment to catch up he asks a question he'd worried was coming. "Can't you heal your eyes with magic or whatever whacko science you use?"

He replaces his glasses with a broken laugh and looks away. "Yes, I suppose I could." What does he say? That he is blind and powerless in a world of those who would happily kill him, if they were feeling particularly merciful? Would he tell Thor, or kill him himself knowing that he had no way to defend himself? He certainly had cause, he could not deny him that.

But again, he pushes aside his misgivings because he has little choice. Someone drops a plate in the other room and he starts, before turning back to Stark.

"Once upon a time I could, perhaps, I don't know. The extent of my injuries is severe and it would push even my limits, I never was good at major healing. It's draining. But even under ideal circumstances I haven't been able to for years now." The confession is almost physically painful, he's not spoken to anyone about it. Matt only knows the bare minimum and there is nobody else. Thor, once, but no longer. He'll never forget the ice in his brother's eyes that day.

"What, getting out of practice with your mojo? Seemed alright when you were blowing us up." And oh, the sarcasm in the voice, so light in the wake of tragedy he could not comprehend... it couldn't even anger him. It just made him impossibly weary. He was long since used to suffering in silence.

"Thor never noticed," he begins and really hopes he won't regret this later. With his luck, his fate already sealed by the norns and handed down in prophecy, he will and he knows it. But what's the point in fighting the coming night anyway? "My eyes, they– As I'm sure you recognize, I have long been a sorcerer. One of the most powerful in all the realms. I first reached out to pull at the threads that bind each infinitely small piece of the universe together when I was barely five hundred and my eyes for the first time flared from grey to green. My magic reflects in my eyes and they have always been brighter than any normal man's, Asgardian or otherwise. That which took my sight did not dull my eyes," he explains with anger blunted by time. "Perhaps my fall had already begun to unravel me, I'll never know for it should never have been possible. When I landed, crashed after He saw me, on that place between worlds, He ripped every shred of magic from my mind and body. It was three years ago in your time that I woke without it, longer in my own. I don't know how long I was there, lost count while He broke me. Not only was my power stripped from me, but my connection to that infinite possibility was as well. Never again will I be able to catch energy in my fingertips or make Yggdrasill sing a harmony far greater than that of any violin." The weight of the secret so long kept tries to lift but is crushed back under the dread that settles over him. No peace will be found here.

A swish and a softer clink than before, probably biscotti or a cookie in the man's coffee from the sound of it. He takes a long sip of his own before Stark speaks.

"You sound awfully calm about that."

And that's the worst part, isn't it? That it's become his new normal. A constant ache that will never truly leave, but that has become a part of him that he has to live with. He is resigned to his fate. "I can either accept my fate and move forward or stay trapped in the horrors of that time and shatter whatever sanity I might still hold. While it's not what I once had I've survived and managed to build a life here. I've been gifted far more than some."

"Like the kids in the park?"

The thought brings a small smile to his face, their unconditional kindness something never known on Asgard where even the children were frightened of him. He rests his chin on his hand. "Like them."

"I've gotta admit," Stark replies, "I didn't peg you as the type, getting along so well with kids."

His smile slips. "There are many things you do not know about me, Stark." The man seems to sense that it's a dangerous topic and backs off, switching gears.

"So no plans of global destruction for the time being?" Yes, because that was so much better. His expression darkens further.

"No, I do believe my dish to Asgard is best served cold. I will bring twilight, have no doubt, but not for a good while yet. Not for several of your lifetimes." The coldness slips from his face, and he laughs half-heartedly. "I assure you the most threat I am to New York is burning my apartment complex down with a repeat of last month's toaster incident." He drinks again from his coffee, the now-familiar smell calming him slightly.

The man seems to decide the most important thing to take from what he's said, and it's not what he had expected. Not that he minds. "You live in an _apartment?"_

"Where did you think I live, Stark, a villainous lair deep in a maze of dark underground tunnels and surrounded by the bones of my victims?" He raises an eyebrow in amusement. The man's pause affirms that yes, that is exactly what he'd been thinking. He rolls his eyes even though he knows he can't tell. "Stark, no one, villain or otherwise, actually does that."

Another swirl in the man's latte. "Doom's got a stone castle filled with his evil robotic creations, Magneto at one point lived on an island surrounded by other mutants in cages, and Doc Ock and the Green Goblin both hung out in the sewers for a while working on their psycho science fair projects. You'd be surprised."

He tries and fails to stifle a snort at that. "Surely you jest."

"No jests here, look it up. The villain stereotype had to come from somewhere. Besides, you did have a whole little research facility in a series of underground tunnels so you're already a third of the way there."

"Of course. Remind me to go grave-robbing if I'm going to complete the picture. Also to leave a note for the good Director and a camera so I can hear his reaction when he finds it."

"Or how about not, because then I have to suit up, fly my ass out there, and then explain to Fury why I'm giggling like a little girl at a sleepover instead of furiously tracking you down."

He smirks. "You only make me want to do it more."

"Ass."

"Common-kissing knave."

"Hey, I don't care how common they are if they're hot."

"Touché. Though I feet obligated to tell you," he adds, "for a man as supposedly intelligent as yourself, your range of insults is dismal." His fingers brush against one of Stark's chocolates by mistake and takes the opportunity to steal it for himself. The man squeaks in protest.

"Assbutt! That was mine!"

"Not anymore it's not. And case in point." He pops the truffle into his mouth with a sly grin.

He hears the other two as they're pulled closer to the other side of the table possessively. "Fine then, you carcass fit for hounds," the other man rebukes.

"Impressive, I didn't think you had it in you."

"Actually, that was Shakespeare."

"You are absolutely pathetic and a disgrace to your species." He thumbs open the clasp on his watch face and runs a finger over the dial. "I should be leaving, I have a meeting soon and I'm going to be late."

"This is the most bizarre thing ever."

"What, that I have a life? You should try it sometime."

A pause.

"Dude. Somehow you've gone from 'you will all kneel before me' to 'I live in an apartment and go to meetings and shit'. Excuse me if I'm a little confused by the sudden change of events."

"Not all that sudden." He pushes his chair back and stands, picking up his cane from where it leans against the wall and finding his book by touch. "I've been here for months." He turns to leave then pauses. It's a long way back to the Kitchen, where he's meeting with Matt and a client to work on a new case. Matt said she was innocent (and he was always, _always_ right), but all the evidence is stacked against her and they don't have an awful lot of time to work out a good defense. He really needs to be there the whole time, the last thing he wants is for her to end up in jail for a crime she did not commit. He's been there. And he's keeping her out. Oddly enough, that's enough incentive for him to override the potential threat. Well, that combined with the anxiety that comes with walking alone with only a cane for a guide. He turns his head back to Stark.

"Would you walk with me?"

That seems to catch him by surprise. "Uh, sure, why?"

"You try closing your eyes and walking into a road. Plus I've got something I can't miss and the route I'm used to isn't very direct." And he knows he should say it, knows he needs to, but it doesn't make it much easier to do so. "I could use your aid, Stark."

It seems to be enough to convince the man, maybe out of surprise or maybe out of some ulterior motive, it's hard to say. "So how does this work? And equally important, where are we going?" The chair scrapes and something paper on the table shifts. A bag, maybe? One of the pastry ones. Then he feels his presence beside him, the slight change in air pressure he's learned to interpret.

"Give me your arm." He breaks down the cane since he hopefully won't need it.

"I'm not donating pieces to your your freaky lair," the man rebukes but offers his arm anyway.

"Now you walk and I follow. If you run me into anyone or the side of a building rest assured I will kill you slowly and hang your head as a warning to all who pass. The rest of your bones, of course, will go to the lair. If we go to West Forty-Eighth and Tenth Avenue, in Hell's Kitchen, I know the way from there." He and Stark share that trait, he's noticed. Covering up fear and weakness with faked arrogance. It's effective, though.

"I'm not going to point out the irony of you going to Hell's Kitchen. I think it speaks for itself."

"Oh, you have _no_ idea," Loki replies drily.

A rustle of fabric and the dull tap of fingers on glass (he's come to associate it with smart phones, it's fairly distinctive). "I've set Jarvis to edit the security footage from any cameras we pass in real time so that Fury or any of the other SHIELD grunts don't happen upon it by mistake. They like to 'keep an eye on me' as they call it. I think it would be a little hard to explain away the fact that I'm helping Earth's most wanted cross the street. That'll go over fantastically."

He snorts, but it's either a reassurance or a trap. Stark could easily be sending it all directly _to_ the director and try to provoke violence. He won't fall into that one. Not that he likely could anyway. He's comfortable enough while they're still in the coffee shop, he learned the building months ago, but they immediately have to cross a street and after that he's pretty much lost. He follows half a pace behind the man and has to repress the long-ingrained habit of praying to the norns. If they existed, they'd never listened anyway. The rush of traffic, the coming and going of the crowds, or the unexpected brush of a sleeve and the bump of a suitcase, he becomes hyper-aware of everything and tightens his grip without thinking. He rarely takes a sighted guide, has never been great on trust and it's a huge exercise of it. Franklin helps him occasionally if he needs it, and Tessa guides him as well, but that's largely the extent of it. He and Karen have little more than a business relationship so he's never asked her before either.

He has to keep reminding himself that Stark has done nothing to indicate an intent to harm so far and that he really needs the help. The man learns quickly, warning him of curbs and hazards and narrow spaces and he tries, he really tries to trust even a little bit but it's difficult. He wouldn't trust him in Stark's place anyhow, considering his actions.

"So how old are you, then?" Stark asks out of nowhere. "I mean, I know you guys are like ancient gods or aliens or whatever, but it's not something that's ever come up in conversation so I've got no idea about you and Thor."

"Isn't it seen as impolite to ask an adult their age on Earth?" He runs his fingers over his watch face. Is this meant to glean data from him?

He feels the man shrug. "In western culture, yeah, but it's not like I've ever been huge on following the rules. Besides, I'm curious!"

"I suppose that is fair in exchange for your aid," he nods, "I am a bit over three thousand, and Thor is just over eight hundred years older."

"Holy crow."

He chuckles. "You have no idea how humorous your Midgardian phrases are when put into an Æsir context."

"I'm not even going to ask. How does that translate, though, to a human age? I mean obviously not exactly, since your years and ours are probably different what with the different planetary orbits and all, but just in a general sense."

He has to work out the math in his head. "It's hard to say exactly, because the way we age is different. Like a bell curve. Our early and later years are shorter relative to those of our young- to mid-adulthood. Taking that into account... I would be in my mid to late twenties, Thor three or four years more.."

Stark stops short and he stumbles forward a bit. The man quickly apologizes. "Whoops, sorry, my bad." He stares back disdainfully as Tony presumably stares like an imbecile.

"Fuck, you're barely even an adult!"

It's his turn to shrug. "Like I said, it's hardly exact. Obviously we have millenia more experience than you but in terms of maturity, yes." They start to walk again while the man processes.

"Now that I think about it, though, you looked a lot older in the battle. How does that work?"

"I told you before that I spent a long time in the place between Yggdrasill's branches. It took a toll mentally and physically, and then the staff fed off my life source alongside the Tesseract for power. Having spent enough time away from it following its destruction, my body has healed itself. Well, to an extent."

"Weird."

"Such is the difference between our realms. Living here is just as strange for me, as the things you consider commonplace are vastly different from what I grew up with. The last time I spent any amount of time on Earth was centuries ago and customs have greatly changed since then."

The man slows. "This is your stop, buddy."

"I appreciate your assistance," he bows slightly, "perhaps we will see each other again." And hopefully it will not end with his imprisonment or death.

"No problem," comes the reply as the man steps away, his sleeve scraping against the rough brick wall beside them. "See you around."

They part ways, and he manages to make it through the door just as the meeting starts.

–

"I apologize for my lateness." He knows the office by heart and between him and Matt it's kept clean enough that negotiating it's not an issue. He quickly finds the chair beside Matt's and sits, leaning his cane against the wall behind him. "I ran into an old acquaintance out in Midtown and it was a rather... delicate situation."

The case notes rustle as Matt pushes them towards him and he flips them open, running his fingers along the overview to refresh his memory.

The woman's purse lands on the desk with a thud and a clunk. Must be keeping bottles of makeup or perfume or something in there. It's irrelevant data and he lets it go. "So, you're both blind?" she asks incredulously.

Matt laughs. "Yep. We take the term 'blind justice' to a whole new level."

"On the up side," he adds, "it makes sharing case notes a whole lot easier." Well, except for when Franklin had to see them which got to be kind of a hassle, but still.

The woman shifts in her seat but doesn't comment.

"Oh, my apologies!" Matt's chair scrapes back. "I haven't formally introduced us yet. I'm Matthew Murdock and this is my associate, Serrure Fürst. Serrure, this is Alicia Cross."

He stands as well, offering his hand. "A pleasure to meet you, Miss Cross."

They both sit, and Matt starts breaking down the case for them, a custody dispute after her boyfriend abused both of them and she ran away with her seven-year-old son. The boyfriend (and the boy's father) is trying for custody rights, and from what she's told them if that happens the kid's in a lot of danger. He's already been in the hospital more than once, as has she, and his conception was an unreported date rape with the man whom she hadn't managed to escape until now.

"I feel obligated to tell you now," he keeps his voice calm, "that these sort of cases tend to be difficult to win. Statistically, when mothers in an abusive relationship try to gain custody as does the father, the father often gains some of not all custody." He hears the sharp intake of breath. "But I swear to you, we will do everything in our power to keep your son safe. On my honor. It's going to be exacting at times, but I need you to promise me that you'll be strong and we'll make it through this. Alright?"

She sniffles and there's a pause (she's probably nodding). "Yeah. Okay."

Matt's pages rustle before he speaks. "We just want you to know what you're up against now, instead of finding out later. Now, let's go over what's working for and against us and go from there."


	3. Grief

He doesn't get home until later than usual, probably seven or eight in the evening, when the air has gained teeth and nips at his skin. The familiar smell of the vanilla and pumpkin spice candles he's never lit welcome him in as he breaks down his cane and hangs it in its place by the door, his keys on the hook beside it and his coat two more down. He trails his fingers across the wall to the cool granite counters in the kitchen, grabbing a small pot, third cabinet from the right, and sets it to boil (small burner on the left, knob rotated to face the opposite direction). He finds it simultaneously irritating and hilarious that he's learned to use a stove but he's never actually seen one. The image he has in his head is just what he's learned by feel and is probably completely wrong.

He's forgotten to label the boxes of pasta again so he has to find the stelline by touch. Granted, he needs to go shopping soon so it's not really that difficult. The soup base is in the refrigerator, top shelf on the right in a glass jar, leftover tomato, mushrooms, and zucchini the next one down.

He'd known when he read the files the first time that this case would be a bit close to home for him, although he wouldn't be able to say anything. Not that any of his children were abused by their parents, but their grandparents (namely grandfather, Frigga would never harm them) are another story. He isn't going to let another mother go through that, and he wishes he could tell her that he understands. He can't though, nobody understands a mother's love except for a mother, and he can't risk his true identity being discovered.

Herbs are the drawer to the right of the refrigerator, those thankfully labelled in braille (except for the basil, for some reason, which he makes a note to fix after dinner) and above the drawer sits a fresh clove of garlic and an onion next to the glass jar of olive oil, the one with the raised designs he thinks are vines but isn't sure.

It's times like these that he wishes for Thor as he remembers him. In his mind he's separated Thor and the Odinson as two different entities, opposites of each other. The protective brother who would keep him safe when he was barely a tot and defended him against all those who would disrespect his name, and the cold pawn in another's game, unable to make his own choices. But in the end they're one and the same.

A hiss comes from the stove, the water's boiling, and he tips the pasta in and sets a timer before finding a small knife to cut the vegetables with. Cooking had been nerve-wracking at first, worrying about the heat and timing and not cutting himself by mistake, but once he thought of it like potion making (which he hadn't ever been incredibly fond for practicality's sake but was still competent at) things became a lot easier. Most of his brewing had been in the dark anyway, he just needed to stop over-thinking everything that could go wrong and learn to listen and feel.

He was always alone before. Thor was the only one who listened as he'd screamed and cried and grieved at each new child being rent from his arms while he was held back, struggling and calling on every drop of magic and strength at his disposal until his body burned so hot it froze. He's gained some odd sort of respect among a few here, but it's not the same as being... he doesn't need to think about that right now. Or ever. Needs not to think about it, actually.

He turns off the stove, drains the pasta, and sautes the onion, garlic, and mushrooms, listening for the change in sizzling and the salty-sweet smell of their juices before pouring in the broth and setting a timer. He leans back against the counter and just breathes for a few minutes, trying to clear the stray emotional cobwebs from the corners of his mind. Emotion is weakness unless used to fuel rage, and even then it is a dangerous chink in one's armor. Something others can twist and use against you. Like Him.

Never again.

He may have lost his power, his sight, his family, but he still has his mind - his greatest weapon of all. So he sharpens and polishes it for when the time comes and he brings twilight upon Yggdrasill. He is patient. He can wait.

The timer goes off and he stirs in the stelline with practiced precision, tipping some of the soup into a bowl and leaving the rest on a cool burner for later. He bypasses the table (he hardly ever uses it anyway, he's not sure why it's still there) and sits on the couch, careful not to spill the scalding liquid.

At the moment there's no real plan except to wait. Wait for an opportunity, what it will be he doesn't know. He needs more power, needs to be able to act on his own without a cane or guide. The soup is hotter than he expects and he swallows quickly in an attempt not to burn his tongue. But what of Stark? Will he tell the director of that wretched organization that he's on Midgard? If so, what course of action will they take, and how can he best prevent it? Probabilities, possible situation, escape plans flit through his mind, each taken and quickly processed before tossing it aside to the flames. He has few weapons, none that he can carry safely with him and none that can not be turned back against him. No doubt if they catch him again he will be gagged, they have learned that much from last time. He cannot count on words with them, only action. There's no way to fight back against them in his current condition, not without being able to see or sense them more accurately with so many of them against him – the most he could do would to hope that they came from all sides and take as many down as possible before he fell as well.

No, that would not do.

He blows on his soup this time and enjoys the saltiness. The flavors here are far different here than on Asgard, some he likes better and some far less so. Vegetable soup is acceptable and not too difficult. And it smells divine.

No, the only way to survive is to escape if they come for him, disappear altogether. Again, there are few options for how to do so. He cannot drive one of their cars without his sight, and there are no horses to steal. Once they make public his identity nobody will be willing to help him. If he can't escape, then, he has to hide.

He's good at hiding, especially in plain sight. And he knows more than a few of the homeless, perhaps they could offer shelter in one of the more... out of the way areas. They will come for a Loki in glorious regality, and they will not find him. They fail to realize that he is not bound by the same convention as Thor. He will do whatever necessary to survive.

He finishes the soup and washes the bowl and spoon, putting the leftovers in the refrigerator for the next day. Once he's cleaned (because leaving a mess you cannot see is a bad idea) he trails the wall to the corner of the living room where a small table stands, level with his stomach if he sits, and he does.

This is the part of his home he knows best. This table, each element on it in its perfect place. Some of them were difficult to obtain here, some easier. The neighbor's cat had always been fond of him, snapping its neck was a simple matter. And he'd pretended to be so distraught when the woman told him, delusional thing believing him because he was, power or not, still the god of lies. Its smallest thoracic vertebra is the perfect size. The herbs he'd found at an obscure vendor's in Chinatown. They weren't quite what he had before, but they are sufficient for his purposes. Perhaps the hardest thing to obtain was the translucent yellow desert glass (not that he could tell by sight, he only knew from experience), as the only source of it was protected by the Egyptian government. It took weeks to obtain, speaking the right words at the right times to the right people, with a little cash incentive. Now he had it, though.

He pulls the graphite bowl towards him and fills it with a small layer of melted snow from a very specific glacier in Iceland. To anyone else it would hold no significant value, but what they are unaware of is that centuries ago it was a Bifrost site. He has water shipped from it weekly. The herbs go next, their acrid aroma piercing at his nostrils painfully. Cats bones follow, a small amount of the fulgurite ground off and sprinkled over the top. Twice-burned ashes, a hair from his head, and a thin layer of oil is poured over it. He opens the lacquered wooden box at the back and pulls out a small gold-plated knife which he'd scratched runes into—his sons' names, Váli on one side and Narfi on the other—and lights a match, bringing his breath down to a slow, steady rhythm. When the match falls into the bowl it flares in a blaze of heat.

"Hela, dóttir mín, höfðingi hinna dauðu. Heyr kvein mitt til þín í nótt eins og hvert annað. Látum sorg mín og ást fyrir bræðrum yðar vera þekkt til þeirra, en meira en nokkuð eftirsjá mín og beiðni um fyrirgefningu. Vinsamlegast, kæru, horfa yfir þeim. Vernda þá og halda þeim ánægðum. Vinsamlegast hafa miskunn á mér, þýddi ég aldrei þig eða einhver af börnum skaða minn. Ég mun hefna þér, ég sver á líf mitt, en það er einskis virði í samanburði við þig. Þú ert unnusti minn, hvað sem kann að koma. Fyrirgefðu mér fyrir skrímsli er ég. Og fyrirgefið mér fyrir skrímsli sem ég mun verða."

The same words he speaks every night. He uses the knife to reopen the same cut on his ankle he has every day since his arrival on Midgard, collecting the spilled blood on its tip, and letting the beads spill into the flames.

"Ástin mín - eftirsjá minn - skuldir minn - eið minn."

The blaze ends abruptly with a hiss (and it always sounds like "faðir minn," but he knows better), and the smoke is almost odorless. He tips the bowl to its side and the bones roll out, dry and cool. He lays the remaining items in their places and sits for a moment, eyes closed.

Breaths in.

Stands, slowly, rolling each vertebra into place one at a time.

Breathes out.

Stretches, drawing as much tension out of his back as he can.

Breathes in.

Draws the knife across his forearm, adding another deep tally to his count and the smell of iron to the air.

Breathes out.

Spins, and drives the blade up to the hilt into the wall.

Stands, forehead pressed against the cold paint, hand still gripped tightly around the handle with the inlaid crystals driving into his flesh, and laughs.


	4. Cold

The next morning finds him hanging by his knees from a tree limb in meditation.

"Sir! You are not permitted to climb trees within the park!" A horse snorts. He opens his eyes (not that it changes anything, but it's the thought that counts) and winces as the feeling he'd been trying to hold back creeps into his peripheral.

"Sir, please come down!"

Aw, how sweet. He said please. He keeps hanging upside down.

"Sir, if you do not exit the tree I will be forced to alert the Parks Enforcement Patrol."

How does one 'exit' a tree? He is not in the tree, he is hanging from the tree. Idiot mortal.

"Sir, this is your last warning!"

"Excuse me," a familiar voice cuts in, "what seems to be the problem, officer?"

"This man refuses to come down from the tree, even though it is against park rules."

A scuff of feet against dirt (a hoof paws at the ground behind them, irrelevant data) and a knock on the tree. "Serrure get down, you impertinent fly-bitten lout!"

He grips the branch he's hanging from with his hands, kicks off and arches through the air to land, rolling his weight through his palms and swinging his legs over to land gracefully on his feet. Turning toward the voice he picks up his cane from where it leans against the tree. "Very good, but much have you still to learn my young Padawan." He walks brazenly away.

After a few seconds he hears footsteps behind him, running. "Hey, you can't just walk away from a guy after doing crazy blind acrobatics and then quoting Yoda!"

He glances to the man with a raised eyebrow. "And yet it seems I just did."

"Lokiiiii..." he whines.

He stops and spins on his heel to face him. It's really not a good time. "What do you want, Stark?"

"Hmm..." His foot taps a few times and he can hear the rustle of hair as he runs his hand through it. "Well, for starters, how the hell you did that, and secondly where on Earth did you see Star Wars?"

"Thousands of years of training and practice, and on my couch," he snaps, walking again.

The arrogant mortal follows him, naturally. "Woah, somebody's tetchy today. What's wrong, Donder, someone take your horns?"

He clenches his fists and steps abruptly into the other man's space, snarling. "Do not speak of that which you do not know, you insolent fool." He takes off in the other direction. Killing an Avenger is unwise, he tells himself, as he has no wish to go into hiding yet.

"Loki." More steps behind him and honestly, does the man have so little instinct toward self-preservation? "Loki!"

Stark falls in step with him. "Look, I didn't mean it. I'm an asshole and don't know when to stop, ask anyone. I'm pretty sure I've pissed off at least half the nation and a good number of world leaders just by existing. I didn't mean it." A light rustle of fabric, probably fiddling with his clothes or something. "Come on, I'm just awful at being a decent person sometimes. I've got no filter, things just come out."

"Whether or not you filter them has no impact on the fact that you still think and mean them."

"But I don't, though. I just lash out at people on instinct. My inter-personal skills are shit."

"Why don't you just go run and tell the Director I'm here so you can get your brownie points and I can get a few moments peace before they make me wish for death again, hm? I'm sick of whatever game you're playing." He quickens his pace.

"Why would I be playing a–? Look, if I were going to turn you in I would have done it by now. Unless you go on some murder spree I've got no reason to turn you in, and I'm actually sort of opposed to the idea seeing as it involves torture."

He trips over a rock he somehow missed and manages to catch himself, swearing under his breath.

"Dude, if you want to, feel free to grab my arm or whatever. I don't mind."

He scowls back. "I'm not some toddling infant, Stark. I don't need your aid."

"I never said you did. But nothing's wrong with letting someone help you anyway. It's your choice, I'm just saying I don't mind."

He doesn't take his arm (even though a part of him wants to, being guided in infinitely easier than the constant anxiety of walking in complete darkness but another part is darker still and says _no_) and they walk in silence for some time.

"Why do you insist on following me? I am of no use to you."

Stark's shoes scuff at the ground a bit. "Maybe not. But you're interesting. I threatened you in jeans and a t-shirt and you didn't just vaporize me with your light saber of death, and even managed to keep step with my jackassery. There aren't many people who can do that."

It's not the answer he expected. "Then what would you have me do, if not ignore you?"

"Dunno. Talk or something? There's a serious lack of intelligent people in the world and I get bored."

Heh. He should have seen that coming. "So I am some plaything, then? To alleviate your selfish needs?"

"No, not like– dammit, you can't read too far into my choice of words, that's not fair. You're the language guy, I'm the mathy-sciency guy. You've got an unfair advantage. Look. You're clever, I like talking to clever people. Okay, yeah, I guess that sounds selfish if you want to take it that way, but it's not meant to be. Isn't that how people usually get to know each other? Talking? Not that I'm a great role model for interpersonal relationships, I'm more the guy who people learn _not_ to be like, I mean half the time I'm in public I'm drunk off my ass so I don't have to think about the fact that three-quarters of the people around me are idiots who only care about either my money or getting into my bed–"

"Stark," he interrupts.

"Yeah?"

"You ramble when you're uncomfortable."

"Oh."

He nearly twists his ankle when there's a sudden dip in the path, and he catches himself on Stark's arm. When they start walking again, he doesn't let go. Breathes in, out, tries to hold back the cold. "I have no particular talent for social matters either, other than those required by royalty. I fail to understand why you care to speak with one who would see your home and people burned. It is a poor tactic for a warrior, unless they are attempting to gain information."

"Well, first off I'm not a warrior. Secondly, yeah, I want info. But not the kind to use against you or anything, it's just kind of hard to talk to someone and not talk about anything. I mean, I guess we can discuss the weather but that's like three words and then it goes downhill from there. Watch out, crazy kids running around."

"Then what would you have us discuss?"

Tony shrugs. "I don't know. I'd ask questions or something but from what I'm getting you're sort of a private person and you've already told me a bit about yourself. I mean, I guess you can ask me stuff? A lot of it's already in the papers, but hey. Surprise me. Ask me anything."

Okay... if the man wants to offer information so badly, perhaps he can gain something from it. "The device in your chest."

He can feel the man tense. "Okay, maybe not that anything. We're not quite friendly enough for that one yet."

"I was not aware we were friends, Stark."

He chuckles. "You threw me out a window, buddy, Maybe not friends, but we've certainly got the history. But seriously, arc reactor comes later. Preferably when I'm really, really drunk."

Arc reactor. The words could be of use, he'll have to look them up when he returns home.

"Then how, might I ask, did you become the Iron Man?"

Stark doesn't relax. "Also off-limits. Tell you what, since we've both got screwy pasts, how 'bout we limit the conversation to after I ran into you at the park?"

"You have a very odd definition of 'anything', Stark."

"Shut up."

His grip on the cane tightens. "I did, for months, I do not care to again. Fine then. What is it that your company does?"

"Oh, that one I can definitely answer." The tension drains from his arm a bit as he starts talking, a mile a minute, in a haughty tone. It's a speech he's given often judging from the way he speaks it. "So, right now our main focus in in the clean energy industry. We're kind of the only name right now, what with the arc reactor technology and all. That tower you decided to throw me out of? The entire thing's powered by one, and it'll keep running full power for at least a year. Almost no waste, and when the cell is used up it only takes a little of this one kind of element and a bit of electricity to recharge. It's super-sustainable, and is gonna change the energy business forever. No more burning coal or atomic waste, and with a little time we can run all our transportation off them as well, just charge up electric cars and be on our way. Of course, that's just the main focus.

"We've got the StarkPhones too, which are newer but easily catching up to Android and iOS based tech, and tons of other computer hardware though a lot of that stays internal for the time being or is pretty exclusive to the very upper classes, because it's not cheap to produce. We're doing some work in third-world countries at the moment, helping to get the basic amenities, food, shelter, water, and the like, to places where they don't have them. Some of the bio-med interns are on the verge of discovering a viable preventative vaccination against AIDS, although I'm not sure they realize how close they are, and I've got another team of scientists working on cancer research. Also tons of material engineering, genetics research, a team of aerospace engineers designing a high-speed rocket that'll be able to take astronauts to Mars safely... you name it, we're probably working on it."

"So what exactly do _you_ do, then?" Tell him something useful already.

"Me? Well, I used to be CEO but that was all just boring paperwork so that's Pepper's job now. I mainly oversee the research and production from a scientific viewpoint, develop my own tech, that sort of thing. And get stuck doing press conferences and going to board meetings. Which are gross. Plus, you know, harass Fury, fly around saving the world. Or just fly around. It's fun. What about you? What have you ended up doing for a living?"

Useless. "I thought you'd decided that I was busy building a lair. Villainous lairs take an awful lot of time and effort, you know."

Stark laughs and pats the hand on his arm. "Of course they do, Blitzen. So are you any good at math and science, or are you just sort of an Edgar Allen Poe guy?"

That's a fair enough question, one that doesn't reveal an overly large amount. Not that Stark's answer was particularly helpful, but he has more to go by and words that could prove useful. "I have studied a small amount of your Midgardian mathematics, read a few books, but it is different from what we were taught as children and I was only able to find a few books in braille. On Asgard the most we were required to learn was basic arithmetic, the sort of things one would need to plan war strategies." They turn onto a gravel path and their footsteps crunch loudly.

"How far'd you get?"

"Only two or three books in. Multivariate calculus, I believe."

"Woah, woah, woah," the man stops and turns to him, "you went from like, addition, subraction, multiplication, and division to multivariate calculus in two or three textbooks?"

It was hardly a difficult task, he's not so sure why the man sounds surprised. "Yes?"

"Okay then, smarty pants, if W is the volume defined by x2 + y2 + z2 ≤ 1 and y ≤ x, then what is the flux of (x3 – 3x, y3 + xy, z3 – xz) out of W?"

He tilts his head, brows furrowed in thought. After a moment, he responds. "Negative four pi over five."

"Oh, god," Stark replies, and he can hear him run a hand through his hair, "you have no idea how much I want to pick your brain apart right now. How the hell did you even do that?"

He looks at him, confused and a bit irritated, and reinforces his mental walls, don't let it get in. "It's just an abstraction of thought, a cousin to magic. A different way of understanding the universe. A way for numbers to explain idea as language uses letters or sounds."

The man seems at a loss for words and the gravel crackles a bit as he shifts his weight. "Where the hell have you been all my life," he ends up muttering.

"I'm not sure wh–" he's inturrupted.

_"Oh!"_

_"What,_ you imbici–"

"You're coming back to the tower with me." He says it like it's already been decided, and he can feel him stand a bit straighter.

He raises a mocking eyebrow. "Now why on Muspellheim would I do that, mortal?"

"Because you're brilliant," he states assuredly, "and if you're that smart, then you're bored. And if you're bored then you're either going to start blowing shit up or you're going to find something interesting to do."

"Your innuendos are pathetic." He rolls his eyes.

Stark hits him in the arm. "Not like that you dirty-minded idiot. I'm way more than interesting, trust me. No, there's _science_ to do!"

"And just what makes you think that I will willingly walk into the building where my greatest enemies reside? Your brain is addled."

He sighs at him in exasperation. "Honestly, do you think I don't have back ways in and out of my buildings? There are more secret doors than even the builders know about."

"And what's to stop me from using the opportunity to bring down the Avengers from inside their own home?" He keeps building his mental walls, it can't get to him again.

"Well for starters, the fact that you just pointed it out. I've got security protocols in place anyway, and I know you're stalling. Come on, Sour Patch."

He pulls his arm away sharply and snarls as he feels the coldness seeping in. "I have no wish to follow you."

"Woah, woah buddy. No harm meant."

Of course not. Why would anyone invite their crippled enemy into their house of heroes to _harm_ them? That would be completely absurd and cold and ice and _remember what they did to you._ He's no ignorant apprentice, he's long since learned the ways of the stone-hearted. His lips turn up into a dangerous smile. "Perhaps you would do well to remember who it is you are dealing with, mortal. Powers or not I could still snap your neck without so much as a thought. Do not dare to think me above it, I have long since ceased trying to wash my hands of others' blood and have no qualms with dipping them back in again."

A double crunch of gravel as the wretch steps back. "Wow, okay, not really expecting the mood swings here, my bad. I'm just gonna... y'know... back off now. Would you rather me show you back or leave?"

"Tell me where we are, then leave." Icy claws sink slowly through his defenses.

"Yep, gotcha, okay. East side of Bethesda Fountain, Terrace Drive facing the Mall. Um, see you around, I guess?" Footsteps receded from gravel to dirt, beats fading into the distance.

Icy tendrils seep through the cracks, the weak spots in his walls bending under the pressure. He makes it to the edge of the park and hails a cab, having it take him back to his apartment, tips double for the speed. The elevator is cold, so cold, and when he finally manages to unlock his door (his hands shake and drop the key once) and slam it shut behind him, he collapses on the floor with a whine.

The frost spreads through his mind and _no no no no not again let him go..._

Please, no, not again _let him go let him go..._

He doubles over, tearing at his hair and trying to drag himself across the floor as it coalesces into glacier, slowly cleaving his mind open.

Throws up wall after wall, trying to keep it out, but his mind has already been weakening and he's not strong enough and it only serves to make it more painful as each barricade is shattered.

Claws at the wall, hauls himself up enough to tear the cold knife out and falls back, trembling and forcing back a giggle.

Drags himself to the gas fireplace and starts it, tearing back a panel of glass to hold the dagger over the flame. Carves another ragged gash in his right leg with the hot blade and screams.

It's not enough, not enough to burn the ice out of him.

The glamor is held on with a fraying thread and he lets it sever itself, moans as the heat from the blaze sears at the heinous monster he is, has become, was always fated to be.

_no, no, please, no_

Icicles in his head turn to cardice lances so cold they ignite, the fog-smoke from its sublimation turning his vision white.

The blade rings as it falls to the tile floor, his body gives out, collapses. The pain doesn't even register over the white noise.

The agony mounts until he can no longer scream.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

_Sorry._


	5. Discussion

**Author's Note: **_My grasp of Icelandic is pretty limited, so I'm having to use translators for a lot of this. I've tried to cross-check and keep it relatively sensical, but there are bound to be some errors. If any native speakers see problems, feel free to point them out and I'll fix it._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

The next morning, six-thirty or so, finds him staring blankly into an untouched mug of tea. His file of case notes is pushed to the wall side of the table, untouched, and he's wearing the same clothes as the day before. He hadn't showered when he woke, his hair left disheveled and he can feel the bags under his eyes but he doesn't care. He just needed to get away from the apartment. He eventually pushes the tea away, tossing his sunglasses beside the mug, and drops his head into his arms murmuring to himself.

_Sumir segja að heimurinn muni enda í eldi,_  
_Sumir segja á ís._

A familiar voice interrupts him. "Hey, Dasher, you okay?

He turns his head toward him with a pained and weary attempt at a smile, finishing the verse.

_Frá því sem ég hef smakkað af löngun,_  
_Ég held með þeim sem greiða eldinn._

"Dude, you look like shit."

"Good morning to you as well." He sighs, and pushes himself up to lean his head in his hand.

The floorboards creak as Stark shifts uncomfortably. "Look, about yesterday. I shouldn't have pushed, I tend to go overboard without realizing it."

He rubs at the bridge of his nose. "No, it's fine, you were not to be faulted. It has been a... burdensome week."

"Still, I was kind of an ass."

"It is forgotten." He slides his fingers over the table, finding his tea and sunglasses, and pulls them back to his side of the table with the groaning scrape of ceramic on wood before gesturing to the other chair. "You are welcome to sit, if you wish."

"You sure?"

He slides his sunglasses back on. "I would not have offered were I not. It is your decision."

A scratch as one of the metal chair legs missing a pad digs into the wooden floor and the knock of porcelain on stone. "What happened?"

He laughs brokenly. "Something I much wish to forget."

A spoon clinks against the porcelain mug. "I get that. But I'm Iron Man, so let me know if I need to go blast something."

"I would prefer that you not destroy my mind, at least for the moment."

The clinking stops. "Loki, you look like I did when I got beat up by Vanko and had life-threatening palladium poisoning. You're covered in bruises, look like death warmed over, and you've got a nice gash on your jaw. There's no way in hell that was just your mind."

He presses a hand to his cheek and winces. "I don't remember it. It must have happened when I greyed-out."

"When you–‽ What the hell, Loki?"

He shrugs, feigning apathy. "I don't really know. Or remember a lot of it."

"That's not– Are you alright?"

"For the time being, yes. It shouldn't happen again for another month or so." He takes a long drag of his tea, which is miraculously still warm.

He goes quiet. "This's happened before?"

"Six times, I believe." He knows, actually. Six uneven cauterized gashes in his leg, crossing over one another. Not neat like the tallies on his arms.

"Look, I'm not going to ask if you don't want to talk about it. I get it. But if you do, or you need help, let me know."

He ducks his head in a slight bow, and as a means to hide the shame that wells up in his chest. "You have my thanks."

They sit in silence, drinking their tea and coffee and he loses himself in thought.

When his mug is empty ten or fifteen minutes later, Tony speaks.

"So what'cha doing today?"

He tips the mug up, finishing the last few drops. "I'm not sure. Avoiding my apartment primarily, I've stepped on enough glass for the time being. Why do you ask?"

The table tilts slightly as the man leans on it. "You look like you could use something to get your mind off things, though you should probably get cleaned up first. Not saying you come to the labs or anything, I can see why you'd be reluctant about that one, but this is New York City so I'm sure there's something to do.

The mug clacks against the chessboard and he takes a moment to consider the offer. "I suppose that would be acceptable. I will have to stop at my apartment, first."

"That's cool. Want me to call you a cab? I'm assuming you don't want me knowing where you live, which is fine."

He pauses. "Why haven't you alerted Fury or the Avengers to my presence here?"

It takes a minute for Stark to switch gears. "I mean, the way I see it you've paid your time and you're not hurting anything so there's no reason for me to. They'd just send you back to Asgard, which I'm guessing would end badly, and I'm not exactly a big fan of your guys' justice system from what little I know. Unless you go criminal on us then in my books you're clear."

"Then it's your choice," he says with a nod.

The second shift in conversation catches Stark off-guard again. "What's my choice?"

"Whether or not you go to my apartment." He needs to counter the constant anger and distrust that's been clawing at his sanity. If Stark wants to find him badly enough he has no doubt he can, considering the technology at his disposal, and a show of trust will most likely be to his benefit.

"Wait, are you serious? I mean, I totally want to see it because hello, you're living in a freaking apartment, but that seems a bit out of character."

"If you truly harbor no ill will towards me then there is no reason to hide it from you. Though I feel obligated to warn you that it is rather... out of sorts. As I said, I have not cleaned yet."

"How far is it?"

"Other side of town, in Hell's Kitchen." He unfolds his cane and gathers his things.

The other chair scrapes back as the man stands. "Hell's Kitchen, isn't that Daredevil's territory? The only time I've been over there recently is when I went with you, before that the Kingpin was still running the place."

"From what I understand it's significantly improved under the Devil's watch." He stands as well and they carry their dishes back to the counter. He pulls out his smart phone (an iPhone, and Stark makes his thoughts on the subject clear) to call for a taxi, and they wait on the sidewalk by the door.

"But seriously, an iPhone? Why would you do that?" he whines.

He raises an eyebrow with a snort. "I purchased it just before the StarkPhones were released and it was the most accessible for me on the market at the time. We're not all made of money, you know."

There's a pause. "You can't see it but I'm pouting, Prancer. I'm hurt. You hurt me."

"You have my greatest apologies," he responds sarcastically.

"Still pouting."

The taxi arrives and Tony slides in first, guiding him to the door.

"What's in the folder?" is the first thing he asks as they pull away.

He holds it up, showing Stark the 'Confidential' stamp on the front. "Can't tell you."

"Ooh, secret business. Now I'm curious."

"Even if you were to see the pages," he rolls his eyes, "they're written in braille."

"Dammit."

"What did you expect, it's not like I can really read ink. It's all flat. And even if it wasn't braille it's written in what Midgardians call Old Norse, or the Æsir evolution of it. Most similar to Icelandic in your modern world."

Stark laughs. "You're only making me more curious, you know. What's it sound like, your language?"

_"Ó hvar er þráður sem bindur mig,_  
_Rödd sem kallar mig aftur– _  
_Hvar er ást sem finnur mig_  
_Og hvað er rót sem ég skortir."_

"That's pretty cool."

"Your language evolved largely from our own, or variations of it. French, as well, it was the language of the aristocracy for a time. If you compare the words you would recognize quite a few of them."

"Say something else!"

He rolls his eyes. "Fine. But this is the last time, I am not here for your enjoyment."

_"Ég velti því ef það er sárt að lifa – _  
_Og ef þeir verða að reyna – _  
_Og hvort – þeir gætu valið á milli – _  
_Þeir myndu ekki velja að deyja."_

"So what are you actually saying?"

"Poems. Midgardian, actually. Earlier was Robert Frost, then Bruce Coville and Emily Dickinson."

"So you've translated and memorized Earth poems? You're such a nerd. It's awesome," he chuckles.

The cab stops and he pays before leading Stark to the door. As always, keys, cane, and coat get hung on their respective hooks, shoes go to the right of the door, and the case files he leaves on the counter by the refrigerator.

Two soft thuds as Stark drops his shoes (presumably beside his) and then a creak as he closes the door. "This place is scarily clean. What do you do, spend all your free time with a feather duster?"

"Yes, obviously." He scoffs. "Of course not, but it's easiest to keep everything in its place so I can find it. Don't start moving tables or I swear to Vallhalla I will kill you in your sleep."

"You really shouldn't give me ideas."

He shoots him a look. "Don't. Or I will end you." A finger across his throat in a blatant threat. "I'm going to get a quick shower and change, make yourself comfortable. I'd recommend you not go into the living room without your shoes on, or at all. There's broken glass on the floor."

He traces the wall to his bedroom and locks the door behind him, running his fingers over the braille tags on his clothes to find a matching set and leaving them on the bed alongside his glasses. He showers quickly, hissing as the warm water and shampoo get into his cuts, and rinsing the remnants of blood out of his hair and from beneath his nails. Admittedly, now that he thinks about it, he likely did look pretty horrific. He should probably apologize to the girl working at the shop that morning. He's thankful that he cut his hair short again, the length it had been before his fall, as it makes washing it an awful lot faster. He steps out and towels dry, dressing and hanging his sunglasses on his collar before blow drying and slicking back his hair.

When he unlocks the door with a click and the sound of rustling pages stops.

"Ah, Loki, just out of curiosity, why is there a good six inch gash in your wall?"

He tries to tuck an errant lock back into place, scowling. "Night before last. I haven't fixed it yet." He pulls on a pair of socks and plucks a rose out of a vase on the window, pricking his finger on a thorn before trying to avoid the fireplace as he walks to the small table in the corner.

"Okay, then... how do you read this, anyway?" More rustling pages, "I can't even feel a difference in the letters."

He drops the flower into the graphite bowl, pouring a small amount of the oil over it, and smears the blood from his finger onto the petals.

"It takes a bit of practice. It's quite a necessary skill, though." He pulls a match from the box, lights it with a scrape, and drops it into the bowl where a whoosh tells him it's caught flame. Stark, from what he can tell, jumps and curses. He holds out a finger to tell him to wait.

_"Hela, dóttir mín, fyrirgefðu skortur minn á bæn í gærkvöldi. Ég er sannarlega leitt. Ást mín til þín og bræður þínir. Halda þeim öruggum þar til ég hitti þig þar."_

_"Ástin mín - eftirsjá minn - skuldir minn - eið minn."_

The flames leap then die, leaving the bowl empty.

"I thought you said you were all out of creepy magic voodoo stuff!"

He sucks his finger for a second, cleaning the remaining blood. "That was hardly magic, I drew on no power of my own. Neither galdrar nor seiðr, nor any other manipulation of Tilveru."

"Then what was it?"

The knife is still cold in his hand and it's unpleasant. He wants only warmth, heat, fire after last night. He puts it back in its box and replaces the lid. "A sacrifice to the dead."

"What, like, the people you killed?"

He laughs, an off-balance thing. "You could say that." And he had, hadn't he? Their only crime was him. Being his was the curse of every one of his children. He'd thought the boys had been safe, with Sigyn, she was kind and a good mother, but he should have known better. He killed his own children.

Their screams still echo in his ears every waking moment, the terror in their eyes forever burned into his own blind ones. The prophecies had said that Sigyn would stay with him, to catch what venom she could, but what mother could bear to aid the one who caused her children's death?

Chilling screams of his boys, cool gazes of the guards unmoved by the sight, cold looks from his once-family, freezing stone and iron on his bare skin, and ice taking hold in his soul even more than his mind. Everything so cold, even on his escape the snow had buffeted around and stung like needles everywhere it hit.

There's a voice somewhere in his peripheral.

"-ki. Loki!"

He jumps, looking up toward the source.

"You alright? You kind of zoned out on me there. I said something dumb again, didn't I?"

Ah. Right. They'd been speaking. With a shake of his head, he turns away. "It's of no consequence. I'm fine."

The response is skeptical. "You're shaking. Asgard must have a different definition of 'fine' that includes 'hell fucking no I'm not alright, you dolt.' Does it? Because that doesn't look like alright to me."

"It's cold." Picking his way carefully across the room and brushing fingers over the back of the couch to gauge his position, he finds the closet by the door and digs around for a few moments before reappearing with a charcoal grey coat. The wool doesn't quite brush his knee, and he finds himself wishing for his old leathers as he pulls it on over his sweater. At least there's a scarf that will match somewhere on the top shelf… aha. There should be a pair of grey sneakers somewhere to the back left, and they don't take long to find since they feel different from his others. He's got a general idea of what they must look like between touch and memory of the fleeing Midgardians, but it's probably wrong.

Once he's finished tying them and has found his phone and cane he leads Stark outside and locks the door behind them, then pushes his gloved hands deeply into the warm pockets of his coat.

"It's early autumn, not the middle of winter for pete's sake. I thought you were supposed to be all godly and resilient."

"I care not for what you think on the matter, as I am cold."

Keyes jingled as the man tossed them between his hands. "Alright then, mister snippy, got a plan for where we're going or are we just gonna stand here looking beautiful for passersby?"

Loki snorts. "I don't see anyone else beautiful here other than myself."

"Hate to break it to you, buddy, but I think it was my stunning good looks that blinded you."

"I sincerely doubt that. In fact, I am grateful that I cannot see such a sorry face as yours."

With a scoff, Stark hits his arm. "That hurts, buddy. That really hurts."

"My sincerest apologizes for your unfortunate condition. Now, if we would return to the matter at hand?"

"Oh, yeah, right. What sort of stuff do you even do, anyway? Can I see your lair?"

He rolls his eyes in exasperation, trying to warm up his hands in his pockets, but gives up and rubs them together instead. It doesn't really work, but it's better than nothing. "What I would assume most do. Work, read, study, practice violin, go for walks in the park, go out to eat, shop…"

"_You_ go shopping."

"No, I sit on the roof while bread falls from the sky. Of course I go shopping, you imbecile, and I need to go today as it so happens, unless I wish to have rice again for the third day in a row." There's a list in his pocket, printed in braille on one side and written in neat script on the other, and he hands it to the him.

After a pause, in which Loki assumes he's is reading over the list, he speaks. "What's the written part for? Isn't that sort of useless for you?"

"Honestly, Stark," he sighs, "for a supposed genius, you are the most dim-witted man I've ever had the misfortune to speak with. It's not the easiest task in the world to go to a store and figure out which box is cheerios and which is that awful chemically imposter."

The list brushes against his hand and he takes it, folding the paper carefully to avoid affecting the letters.

"Everything is chemicals. Saying something tastes like chemicals is saying that it tastes. And are you insulting fruit loops? They're like little rainbows of happiness."

"If your definition of happiness involves a slow and diseased death, then yes, they are. Are we going to go and actually do something productive, or just stand here prattling like old hags?" Three deft motions and a corresponding number of clicks has his cane unfolded, and he heads off to the right toward the elevator. Scuffing steps tell him that the idiot mortal is following.

"This is so not how I planned my morning to go."

That, he has to agree with, although he doesn't respond as his decent mood slips. It's not really worth it, as it should be fairly obvious, and it isn't something he wants to dwell on overly much.

Seeming to sense the change, he pats his arm. "Hey, look at it this way. At least you're up and showered. I count that as a plus."

One smooth movement has Stark pinned to the wall by his throat as he spins, the cane whips out, and in a swirl of black hair and grey wool the elevator is back parallel in front of him again. The pressure on the cane isn't enough to truly injure the man, but judging from the stilted breath is at least inconveniencing.

"Do not presume to think," he growls low, "that we are in any way familiar enough with each other for you to speak as such to me. There is not a creature in the realms who may. Consider this a most merciful warning, as next time you will find your mouth sewn shut."

The reply is a strangled sound, but resembles agreement enough for the cane to drop as the elevator opens with a ding. Said cane used to get caught in the crack between elevator and floor, but he's learned to follow the noise instead and check the edge of the door by touch instead. Footsteps follow his a moment after.

"Holy shit, man, I can't even start to understand what goes on in your head."

"Which is why you're a mortal," Loki retorts, "and I am a god."

"Yeah, from how I understand it the gods aren't doing much better on that front. Can we please agree not to cause Tony bodily harm when he's actually trying to be a decent person? I mean, preferably never, but considering the fact that I was born an asshole you should be proud of me for making such a huge effort to be nice."

"Thank you so very much," he responds drily, "I don't know how I'll ever repay you."

"Well, like I said, not killing me would be a great start."

The elevator buttons are all marked in braille, which is a small mercy in a world of confusing inputs and even more so the lack thereof. He presses the one marked for the ground floor and leans back against the wall.

"I am not some toy to be coddled, Stark, nor a charity project to offset the ghosts in your mind. And don't give me that look."

He scoffs. "You can't see, how would you know if I was giving you a look?"

"I don't need to see it to know it's there. It's obvious enough that you're sleep deprived from your actions alone, and you start at noises that none else would think twice about. Your past has caught up with you, has it not?"

There's a beat of uncomfortable silence on the other man's end.

"I'm fine, asshole. Don't turn this around on me when you're the one with the issues."

"You are a terrible liar, Stark. It's embarrassing."

He shifts nervously, the movement carried to Loki's peripheral a few moments before the temperature changes slightly and the doors open on the ground floor.

"Let's just go to the store, or whatever," is the curt reply.

Loki doesn't fold his cane again. He knows that he's probably overreacting, it's not as if the man had any ill-intent, but the ice is still melting and leaving the runoff to chill his veins. It's an uncomfortable walk to the grocery market, a tense silence between them that feels like a tripwire to whoever breaks it. He avoids taking Stark's arm, opting to cross streets by practiced listening instead of accepting aid. Once or twice he considers just stepping out when he knows a car is coming, but it wouldn't do much good thanks to his physiology. All that would happen is bent metal and potential injury to the passengers.

Damn his godhood.

A few blocks of dragging steps later, Stark speaks.

"Yeah."

Loki glances back in his general direction. "I'm sorry?"

"Yeah, it fucked with my head." A scuff, and the clatter of a rock kicked across cement. "After you were hauled off to hang with the guardians of asses, my life's been a little more screwy than it was before. And it was pretty screwy already."

He doesn't reply, but the silence that follows isn't quite so uncomfortable.

Three blocks and a rather rude couple later (to whom he makes quite clear what he thinks of them while Stark tries not to laugh) they reach the store. Familiar bells knock against the glass door when he pulls it open and holds it for the other man. A whirring fan over the door makes the already cold air seep deeper into his bones. Alice, the girl who usually helps him with his shopping, shouts a greeting and asks if he needs help. He shakes his head and feels for the wire grid of a shopping cart.

"Stark, have you ever actually entered a store to buy food for yourself?"

"What do you think I have staff for? Seriously, I doubt you ever did either when you were all prince-of-the-world."

The first cart has a wheel that tends too much toward the right so he pulls another out and pushes it towards the man. A loud rattle tells him he caught it, although a bit off-guard. Mortals.

"I spent many afternoons at the bazaar, actually." And he had. The golden sunlight cast its bright warm rays across a rainbow of cloth tents, and fresh fruit seemed to shine with it. It was always a cacophony of noise and color—shouting children chasing a hound, fowl clucking and pecking at their cages, merchants peddling their wares while a baker inevitably yelled in the background and tried to give chase to a kid thief weaving their way through the crowd. Cooking meats sent their juicy scent across the rows, a candy-maker gave youngsters a show and traded a handful treats for a coin. There were the poorer, too, huddled along the paths begging for just a few copper crow, please. Sometimes when he had the free time he'd sneak a few shards of a healing stone to toss to the less healthy folk.

"Wow, I think that's the first actual smile I've seen since you were with the kids. Is 'the bazaar' some euphemism I'm missing?"

That earns the man a solid whack with his cane. "Your mind is filthy."

"I try."

Loki sighs. "The bazaar is exactly what it sounds like. All the farmers and merchants gather at midweek to sell their goods. I used to go primarily for spell ingredients and such, but there was often music and dancing and always fresh food. Not the sort you have here, Asgard is another realm and as such has entirely different crops than Earth does, but one of the bakers also made a fantastic drink something like one of your milkshakes mixed with an array of spices and a touch of alcohol. It was always good fun."

"So you can buy spiked smoothies with your loaf of bread?" The laugh is followed by a rattling crash. "Fucking he-" he switches gears seeing the look on Loki's face, "-ck, how are you supposed to turn one of these things?"

With a roll of his eyes he feels for the cart and pulls it back away from the shelves the man had crashed it into. "I would recommend using your hands to do so, or do you rely on that metal contraption so much that you aren't strong enough to turn a wheeled basket?" There's a noise of protest but he ignores it in favor of running fingers across the much-worn shelves to count aisles. "This way. The first section should all be down here."

A rustle of paper as Stark pulls the list out of his pocket (crumpled, from the sound of it, which is incredibly irritating since he relies on touch to read it) along with the clack of what sound like batteries. Triple-A's from the pitch.

"Fresh organic pasta, ooh, mister fancy-pants, are we?"

"Just because your senses are so dull that you cannot taste the disgusting things your meddling has done to food does not mean mine are. I prefer not to retch when I sit down to supper."  
"I'll try not to take offense to that, but only because you're always an asshole anyway. Tortellini, rotini, angel hair—that seems rude, to kill an angel and just use the hair, and also a bit disgusting—egg noodles, polenta—who the hell actually eats polenta, you're weird—qui-what, now?"

"Quinoa. That general direction," he points to a shelf on the left, "and polenta is good. Stop harassing me because I have decent tastes."

"Never."

Cardboard scrapes over metal as he pulls the box out from what must be the back from the sounds of it, and it lands in the cart with a thud. Thank whatever powers he doesn't believe in that the other boxes aren't tossed so haphazardly, because if he ends up with a pile of crushed food there will be serious regret on a certain mortal's side.

Loki brushes his fingers lightly over the jars on the near shelf. Too big, too big, too narrow, who in Valhalla put a can with the jars of pasta sauce? Idiots. It's a smaller one, the weirdly sized tomato paste, which means it goest three sections over… and one of the larger cans has been knocked over as well. Both clack against the shelf as their weight is redistributed. Back to the actual sauces, he tests the varying shapes to find the one he's looking for.

"Stark." He taps on the shelf in front of the jar and the metal echoes dully. "White or red?"

"Red."

Next one to the left, then. The cart rattles again when the glass is set in the front of the basket.

"Two aisles over has cereal and beverages, correct?"

A few moments pass while footsteps grow further away before returning.

"Yep. Come on, then, Prancer, get a move on!" The rattle of the cart starts up again and he follows it. "For the record, you have the weirdest grocery list ever."

They reach the next aisle and Loki goes back to running his hands over the shelves searching for what he can find by touch.

"Seriously, you don't have anything even remotely exciting on here, and is it actually possible to like Grape Nuts? I mean, ew."

"Yes, well, while you grow fat and sluggish in your gluttony, I shall maintain my agility."

"Ooh," the man lowers his voice to a joking seductive tone "what sort of agility?" Well, at least from the sound of it Stark's still being useful while he's being irritating.

With a sigh, Loki sets down the bag of coffee he'd sniffed. "Must everything be an innuendo with you?"

"The name Tony Stark is synonymous with innuendo, sorry buddy. Even Jarvis has resigned himself to the fact."

Mmm, this one smells nice. Good for mornings when there's not time to stop at the coffee shop before work. "Jarvis?"

"Oh, Loki, Loki, Loki… you're in for the treat of your life if you ever decide science paradise is in your future. I can't even imagine how you two would get along, but it;ll probably be hilarious."

A kid runs by, sudden and close enough to spook him, but he recovers quickly and instinctively focuses more on hearing his surroundings. The rest of the things on the list for this aisle aren't ones distinguishable by sight, so he leans against the shelf behind him and drums a beat on his cane in boredom. A cash register dings in the background, and a splash of something an aisle or two over is explained when the sharp smell of cleaner washes over him, making his throat burn and useless eyes water. He shuts them tightly and covers his nose and mouth with a sleeve to block out what he can.

"Dude, you alright?"

Loki starts again at the unexpected noise, focus on sound dulled in favor of trying to block the stinging in his nose. Suddenly the other end of the row seems extraordinarily inviting. An invitation that he gladly accepts, actually. Blessedly the smell isn't quite so bad here, but he leans forward against the shelf coughing painfully into the rough wool of his elbow. Stark's followed, no surprise as he can't leave well enough alone, and makes a questioning sound.

"Bleach," he explains, voice annoyingly hoarse from the coughing. "The scent is not a pleasant one."

"I definitely don't see anyone using bleach nearby. Sure you're okay?"

He gestures vaguely back toward where the cart still waits. "Two- no, three aisles over, I think. _Norns,_ it burns." Screw wearing glasses for a few minutes, if anyone's uncomfortable with seeing his scars then fine, because his eyes should really stop watering now, please and thank you. It seems a bit unfair that they can still be bothersome even as destroyed as they are.

"Can't smell anything here, but hey, you're the blind guy."

"Blindness does not make one's senses any stronger, measle, it merely means that we must use the information moreso than you would. And it's not my fault that my senses are stronger than yours. Mortals are so limited in their powers of perception. Would you mind finishing the list? I can go pick out the produce, as I don't need your aid and I assume it's not within your skillset."

"Sure, no problem. Meet'cha over there, don't start a food fight while I'm gone."

"Now who's giving who ideas?"

"I'm rolling my eyes, Loki."

It's really not worth bickering at this point, he's hungry and just wants lunch so the sooner they finish the better. Well, that and the fact that while it's less intense here, the cleaner still smells prevalently here. To the produce it is.

This is something familiar, most similar to how he used to pick food. The smell and feel of each piece of fruit is distinct, and he's quite picky when it comes to freshness. Alice sees him testing the melons and walks over, laughing, to inform him that she set aside the best few for him to chose from and show him where they're stashed. Sure enough, two of the three pass his test and he adds them to a basket she offers. Despite the slight inconvenience of having to carry both it and the cane while searching for a ripe avocado, the weight is comforting. He's in control of this, just a little bit, and doesn't have to rely on someone else to do it for him.

_Isn't it pathetic? How far the not-prince has fallen, that picking out berries in a mortal store is an achievement? He is naught but a cosmic joke, the laughingstock of Yggdrasil._

_You should have kept falling, monster, out there in that void. You deserve to die._

* * *

**Author's Note:** What, you thought I would just give you a chapter of fluff?

The poems Loki recites are a few I'm fond of and felt sort of fit his attitude right now. They are, in the order they appear:  
Ice and Fire - Robert Frost  
Song of the Wanderer - Bruce Coville  
I measure every Grief I meet - Emily Dickinson


	6. Rooftops

He's gone by the time Stark finishes his adventure through the realm of the grocery store.

It's not the first time he's wound up on the roof of the building, the wind so high up biting his ears and adding another unnecessary layer of cold to the ones already wrapped around him, and he sincerely doubts it will be the last. Climbing to high places like a goat is nothing new. What feels like centuries ago, he would scale the palace roofs in search of a place to be away from the constant commotion of the monarchy, without the squabbling councilmen and fawning maidens who had intelligence less even than that of the Warriors Three. Once upon those times, the view of the stars stretched out above and the towns beneath was breathtaking, and could clear his mind like nothing else. Now the air is acrid, the landscape gone, and the stillness overwhelmed by the constant dissonance of engines and sirens. He sighs. It's just not the same.

Gravel crunches loudly under his feet as he walks closer to the edge, and he kicks a ditch in it absentmindedly. What he wouldn't give to be able to perch up on the topmost spire again… or anywhere high on Asgard, for that matter. Midgard is round, and the horizon falls away not too far off in the distance. When he had stood on the balcony of Stark's stupid little monument to himself and surveyed the destruction of the attack, he'd barely been able to see anything. Back hom- back on Asgard, though, at such a height all was visible from where the Bifrost dropped into the Sea of Space back to Mt. Zanadu, and then out to the White Sands. He misses that, especially in wake of this constant nothingness. Now more than ever, it's a struggle to escape himself.

With a scowl he sits on the edge with his legs hanging over and throws a stone as far as he can. Hopefully it will break a window or hit someone in the head.

Seven months, and he still can't just take care of himself. Still has to rely on _mortals_ for everything. It's so far past degrading that not even his silver tongue can find a word for where he's fallen. He was a prince, for Valhalla's sake! A king! Now he is naught but a blind, lame beggar amongst filthy _vermin,_ who can barely even perform the most menial of tasks. And the wretched _morals_ he's defending, which don't even make any sense.

Why does the court call for the life-long imprisonment of one who has only killed a single man? Or call down their death? Weregild is so much more consistent, with its set fees for each man based on station. Though, he supposes, the muddying of classes here would make such a thing difficult. How can anyone stand to walk in such constant confusion? He may love chaos, thrive off of it, but this is just nonsensical. And by the Norns, have the barbarians no concept of respect?

He throws another stone over the edge. It would serve them right to be hit by it.

Everything is just so _infuriating_ and _confusing_ and _overwhelming_. Months on this archaic rock and he can't even begin to comprehend how the realm works. How it's survived so long with so much internal war and constant bickering. It's worse than the nobles at court.

Loki shouts in frustration, because he can, and because it's all he can. It's not like anyone will hear him over the din. He's insignificant. An outcast. Forgotten.

A few minutes later he hears the door from the stairwell swing open with its soft squeak. The voice that cuts into his thoughts like a knife fresh from the forge is quite the opposite.

"Hey, Vixen, not nice to make a guy buy your groceries for you while you angst on a rooftop like a teenage girl."

He bristles at the comparison, and snarls back. "It's hardly as though your wallet is incapable of sustaining such a thing. You wouldn't even notice the difference in such meager amounts of coin."

"Ah, yeah, not the point. Although, did you know that they have these little mini conveyor belts just for the shit in your cart? I so need one of those in my workshop. No clue what I'd do with it, but I need one."

"Would you cease your childish _prattle?_ I swear to the Norns, I ought to run you through with a blade and toss you from the rooftop like the refuse you are!" His voice rises steadily as he speaks until he's practically shouting, and he climbs to his feet to face the idiotic mortal, ruined eyes blazing in anger. "None have any care for your pathetic attempts to gain attention, you obnoxious, mangy creature!"

Naturally, the fool walks closer, the gravel shifting loudly under his heavy footsteps.

"Wow, Comet, someone's riding the emotional roller-coaster today. Was that really necessary?"

Loki's grip on his cane tightens and he bares his teeth. "Why."

"Sorry?"

_"Why?"_ he growls, "Why are you doing this?"

"Because I minored in bothering people at MIT. It's kind of my superpower."

Oh, for the– "No, why are you doing _this?_ Pretending you care about what happens to me, having breakfast, going to the store! I tried to _kill you,_ or have you forgotten so quickly? You're just going along with everything like this is somehow _normal_ and we're _friends!_ You turn your back to me as though you believe yourself safe in my presence! I know enough about you to know that you are not a selfless man, that you have little care for what others think or do. _WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?"_

Stark slaps him.

The mortal actually has the gall to slap him.

If it was his intent to shut Loki up then it works, because the god has absolutely no idea how to respond to that. It stuns and angers him in equal parts.

"Do you hear yourself? Get a grip, asshole. For fuck's sake, can't a I just be a decent person for once? Yeah, not gonna lie, when I first saw you I possibly flipped a shit. Same thing the second time. Maybe a little the third. I thought you were up to something and was planning to call Fury once I had a little more intel. But you know what? I'm pretty sure you couldn't fake all of this, even with all your magic voodoo shit. Seriously, have you seen your face? And yeah, I know, you can't, but you know what I mean. No offense, buddy, but you look like shit. I mean I've seen a lot of shit, including in the mirror on bad nights, but it's kind of cringe-worthy when you take off your glasses. Besides, you're fun to bother and hilarious when you're irritated… well, except when you're trying to kill me or whatever, in which case cut it out, because parties without me aren't any fun and I'd hate for the world to have to deal without my kind of awesome. God, you should see the look on your face right now, it's hilarious."

Off the top of his head, Loki can think of sixty-three ways to seriously maim the imbecile with the box of Grape Nuts he had apparently been so repulsed by. If it weren't for the fact that it would probably cost him his job, number thirty-four sounds like quite good fun.

Fortunately for Stark, just as he's debating whether he could talk his way out of being fired, the man's phone beeps and he shoves the three grocery bags into Loki's arms while he answers it.

"Hey, what's up?" There's a gap, filled by rattling as he taps his foot on the gravel. "Really? Come on, I finally got time off- no, that doesn't count, I was down in the lab working! Shut up." Stark snorts. "Nothing, just pretty sure that's not possible. Thor would have told us if something's up."

He bristles at the name, anger swelling in his chest and making it hard to breathe.

The mortal sighs, and kicks at the rocks. "Fine… I'll be right over." His phone buzzes once as he hangs up.

Fighting down the unwelcome emotion, Loki raises an eyebrow in question.

"Apparently things are blowing up downtown, and there's a tall guy in green running around. Sure you're not cloning yourself?"

"I can assure you, if I wished to draw the Avengers' attention, I would be far more creative in my methods than just causing explosions."

"Not sure if I should be reassured or concerned by that, Cupid."

"Take it as you will."

"Right, well, I've gotta take off and whack not-you upside the head a few times… have fun brooding?"

Loki scowls and turns back to the city (and yes, he is aware of the hypocrisy of his statement earlier, but it's not like he wasn't already forced to assume that Stark wouldn't cause him harm—besides, back turned or not he still can't see the obnoxious creature).

After a moment, the peon's steps recede and the door to the stairwell shuts with a sigh and a click.

He's not _brooding_. He is (was) a respectable prince, and is above such lowly actions. He's simply contemplating his situation.

Okay, fine, maybe he's brooding a tiny bit.

It's hardly as though it's not justified, considering the events of the past night and the still-lingering aftereffects. Loki sets the bags down and pulls his coat tighter around himself, trying to banish the chill. Over the past months, he's tried to figure out a suppressant for it if not a cure—he's not quite that level of delusional, that he would think such a thing would be granted to him—everything from meditation, to witchcraft (and isn't that just contemptible), to copious amounts of alcohol. The first did nothing, the second backfired quite horribly, and the third just led to an awful hangover the following morning.

Another gust of wind causes him to shiver. By the Valkyries' wings, he needs to find somewhere warmer—not home, though. He'll have to clean it some time, he realizes, but for now procrastination wins out. The food has to be dropped off, and the cold things put in the icebox, but his apartment always feels wrong the day or two after… whatever this was.

Three bags are a bit difficult to manage with his cane, which is why he normally tries to shop frequently so that he only has one or two at a time. Not that such a thing could hinder Loki of… not Asgard, anymore. Certainly not Jötunheimr. He can't even claim Yggdrasill, after his connection to her had been rent from his body. He's just Loki. Just nobody.

Why do his thoughts always seem to cycle back to that?

He's not nobody!

If naught else, then he is Loki, prince of the place Between and master of nothingness. Loki, survivor.

That much they cannot take from him.

Loki survives, at any cost.

Plastic rustles obnoxiously loudly as he shifts the bags onto one arm, and he makes his way back down the echoing stairwell. Outside, the traffic is as ridiculous as ever, although it's always just seemed the way of things. It's been so long since he's visited Midgard (and things change so rapidly here) that his knowledge of modern customs and technology is limited, and he's never travelled by car any faster than they move within the city. Briefly he considers taking a taxi, because it's always felt a little more comfortable that walking sightless, but he's not exactly swimming in a vault of gold coin right now. Matt does his best to pay him well, he knows, but the cases they take don't often pay well and it's sometimes difficult for the three of them to make ends meet.

He ends up walking, growing progressively more irritated at the reckless drivers who seemed determined to run him over. Not that it would injure him terribly, but it would be a nuisance and people would likely start asking questions if a man was in far better condition than the car that hit him. Besides, his canteloupe would get bruised. Naturally, as though the pathetic realm is purposefully conspiring to make his day as wretched as possible, the aural cue on the crosswalk signal is broken. On the busiest intersection he crosses.

Loki swears colorfully in six languages, just to spite the day he's having.

"Hey, man. Need a hand?"

…okay, fine. Midgard: 6, Loki: 1. Well, assuming that the kid's talking to him, otherwise two points for the sorry realm. Doesn't sound like anyone else is around, though. "Loathe as I am to say it, that would be appreciated."

The boy is slightly taller than Stark, which is nice, because it's more comfortable to take his arm. About the Hawk's height, although it's hard to tell for sure. He's always been good at reading people, and sight or not that hasn't changed. By the time he's comfortably taken the offered arm, he has a decent picture of the boy—confident in his abilities, talented most likely, but the outside world hinders him somehow. Loki can read that much from how the boy carries himself, but it's severely lacking in terms of his normal judgements. His voice is clear, genuine rather than holding any ulterior motive. It's a pleasant change.

There's a short period of time between when the help is offered and the street is clear, which they fill with small talk, and he tries to gauge a bit more of the boy's character. He gleans a little, enough to confirm his theory. After they've crossed, Loki thanks him and promises that if they e're meet again and he needs aid, it will be gladly given in return. When he's taken a step away, he pauses and turns.

"May I ask your name?"

"Yeah, 'course." There's a kind smile in his voice. "I'm Peter."

Loki bows his head—a compromise he's found between Midgardian behavior and the bows of respect he was so used to on Asgard—and gives a small, grateful smile. "Serrure. May your mounts be swift and your hunts graced with fair weather."

"May… the roads rise up to meet you?"

"So some of the old ways survived after all," he laughs, and after a moment adds, "Again, you have my thanks."

When he gets back to his apartment, he's in and out as quickly as possible. Yes, he knows he'll have to clean it if he doesn't want to find glass in his shoe (again), but he doesn't really care right now. The groceries go to their respective places efficiently, and ten minutes later his key slides into the lock on the door to his office. The deadbolt turns with a solid thunk.

Work is an easy distraction. One thing he's thankful for is the fact that he holds a position here, because it requires a good deal of thought and the skills he learned as a child fit it well.

Law is law, whatever realm or species. Whether or not he'd actually been in line for that wretched throne, his training was that of a future king, and as such he is well aware of the subtle details in Asgardian justice. Beyond that, though, was the… personal study he'd done. Reading people's motivations and intentions is simple by now, and manipulation just as much so. The loopholes may as well be written in red ink (or shouted, right now, considering recent developments) for how easily he can see them. This Midgardian concept of having another man champion ones innocence is bizarre, but the position suits him well. In a perfect world—well, not really, because a perfect world would include his sight, magic, and general respect—he'd speak directly on their behalf. It would be a great deal of fun, wrapping the petty little creatures around his finger, and yield consistently successful results at every trial, but due to his quite literal status as an illegal alien it's best he stay toward the outskirts of legal proceedings.

That's not to say the clients he coached aren't sufficiently prepared. If they can convince him that their case was worthy, he will spend as much time as needed training them to carry themselves, speak steadily, keep their head under pressure, and mind their words. Matt represents them during their trial, and he himself observes from a distance. It's odd to be sought out as counsel on this particular subset of his talents. Yes, it would be better to utilize them directly, but this is still a pleasant change.

* * *

**Author's Note:** _If you haven't heard it before, the blessing Peter mentions is a traditional Gaelic one. He's not quite up to par with Loki yet on spontaneous formalities. The places on Asgard Loki mentions are taken from a map drawn by Peter Gillis and concept art for the movie by Craig Shoji._


	7. Flight

"-ure. Serrure, wake up."

Loki grumbles and tries to pull a pillow over his head, only to find a distinct lack of pillows in lieu of pointy office supplies. Oh, for the love of Valhalla– What time is it, anyway? Norns, his neck is stiff.

"How long have you been here? Actually, I'm not sure I want to know." There's a heavy clack of ceramic on wood, and the thud of a bag being dropped on the floor.

Sitting up, he rubs his eyes tiredly and finds his glasses, which at some point made their way to the far side of his desk next to a cool glass paperweight his landlady gave him when he'd invited her over for tea. "How late is it?"

Franklin laughs in disbelief. "Late? It's seven thirty in the morning. How often do you fall asleep here?"

He shrugs. Occasionally, depending on how involved in his work he is and how tired he gets. It's as good a place as anywhere to rest, save for the potential soreness upon waking if he falls asleep in an odd position. All things considered, he's slept in far worse conditions. Falling back into slumber is actually a quite tempting idea. It's time to work, though, and having been found asleep is unprofessional, so he stands and smooths his clothing.

"Is there coffee left? I could use the aid in waking up."

"Yeah, Matt moved the pot over a bit. You doing okay? You've looked a little rough the past week."

Loki sighs, finding the coffee pot and listening to gauge when the mug is full. He's glad to chase the taste of sleep off his tongue.

"How's the custody case going? I know you've been pretty invested in that one."

"I lost custody of my children, I'll not let it happen to another." He taps a stack of papers against the desk to straighten them. "It's a difficult case, thanks to the despicable father, but I believe we will be able to wi-"

The ground shakes once, twice, and a roar sounds in the distance. His head snaps up, senses immediately going into the high-alert of battle, and he lets the dagger he always keeps up his sleeve fall into his palm.

"Holy shit, since when do you carry knives around?"

The blade, when tested, is sharp enough to break his skin upon light contact. Good. "Call it life insurance."

Franklin laughs. "You have a pretty cheap policy there, Serrure. Ever consider an upgrade?"

Another roar, still in the distance but definitely closer.

"Where are you going?"

He pauses halfway to the door. "Protecting my home. It took long enough to settle here, it would be a hassle to have to restart again."

"I wish I wasn't so used to people running off like this."

A raised eyebrow is the most acknowledgement he gives, instead continuing outside. If at all possible he'll avoid getting too close, fighting blind would terrify him even if he won't admit the weakness, and it would draw unneeded attention to his presence on Midgard. However, Ignorance to danger was not something he was fond of.. It would do him well to know what was taking place.

It takes longer than he would like to find the chaos (and, admittedly, it's a slightly refreshing reprieve from the monotonous calm). When he does, he climbs to the rooftop of one of the shorter office buildings and crouches on the edge, observing. He brought his phone, and connects his bluetooth headset to stream local news coverage. Apparently the beasts roaring so obnoxiously are large, white, furry things with impressive claws and four eyes.

Lovely.

Something rockets overhead, and the calls of the Avengers filter up to his ears. It sounds like quite an impressive fight. Lots of clanging when it comes to the good captain' s shield, the thwip of arrows finding their targets, Stark's repulsor blasts… it's interesting to hear when the aggression is not aimed at his own person. The great beast is mysteriously absent, presumably to avoid undue damage to the city (which he appreciates). He tosses the dagger in the air a few times to stop his hands from twitching. That particular tick is getting increasingly noticeable and frustrating, especially in situations like this. Muscle memory from so many centuries of practicing and fighting with throwing knives takes over, and that seems to steady them. Thank Valhalla for that.

The battle seems to have moved away a bit, which for the most part is a good thing, but makes it harder to hear and react to if necessary. He settles back on his heels and listens to the news, wondering briefly what the Avengers would do if they realized he hovered nearby almost every time they fought. Probably attack him, toss him into a cell, interrogate and torture him, call _Thor_… He shivers. Nothing enjoyable, that much is for certain. They'd hardly believe the blindness and lack of magic, and even less so that his intentions were to fight for the city if the need arose. No doubt the mess would be blamed on him. Typical. It's hardly as though he is evil, far from. He's neither hero nor villain, he just takes the side that benefits him most. Currently, that side happens to be that of Hell's Kitchen.

Loki makes his way back to the stairwell and down to ground level. It's not difficult to find where the merry band of, well, not heroes either, really, save maybe the captain and his ridiculous morals, are fighting. All he has to do is follow the screaming and gunshots. Back on Asgard, there would be few screams save that of babes if monsters somehow found their way into the village. Well, monsters they knew, not the one who walked among them in the guise of an Áss. Few even of the women would make such sounds. It's not as though shrieking helped any, considering it only gave away one's position. Granted, Asgard's warriors were fond of roaring battle cries and being general idiots. He sighs, catching the edge of a trash can with his cane and sidestepping it. It's a wonder the realm has survived as long as it has with that sort of approach to fighting. The Svartálfar, with whom Asgard had always held tension, were too far to their own end of barbaric to pose any real threat, but the Álfa? If their allegiance turned, their cleverness and subtlety could pose a good deal of danger. Asgard was not prepared for an attack of stealth.

Oh well. Asgard could fall now for all he cared…

Okay, so maybe that was a tiny bit of a lie… he was still their prince, once, and though he'd never held as much respect as the rest of his family, they were still his people and he still favored them to an extent. Such emotions were useless now, though, so the lie was a better option than the truth.

A little ways from the shouted commands and beastly roars, Loki finds a tree branched enough to climb and tall and leafy enough to hide. He folds his cane, tucks it under his arm, and carefully makes his way up through the limbs. There's a good junction between two of them to perch.

After a few minutes the fighting returns to the area he's claimed as his, and everything becomes a flurry of noise and vibration. It's hard to keep track of what's happening where—the Hawk calls out in pain at the same time something slices through flesh and Stark shoots by—there's so much activity moving so fast that everything blurs together. Back on Asgard he'd always been the best of Thor's friends when it came to fighting in the dark because he's patient and attentive, able to step quietly and pick off enemies one by one, but that was when everyone was at the same disadvantage.

The tree rustles as he shifts his balance to get a little closer. Closing his eyes might not really do anything when it comes down to it, but it helps him to focus and makes the darkness slightly more natural. Slowly, ever so slowly, the information starts to separate into its pieces, so that to an extent he can keep track of where each creature is below him.

Repulsors sound, sending one of the beasts against the trunk, and he almost loses his grip having not prepared for it. Norns, fear is part of fighting, and having some keeps one alive, but this amount is new and unwelcome. He should just leave them all to rot as carrion for the birds. If he shows himself now, it's just as likely that they'll come after him as they will the creatures, and they'll know he's escaped… except if the Avengers fall, then so too does the city. There are other heroes here, sure, but none ready to fight. If the beasts get too far away then the few friends he's made will be in danger as will the life he's built.

Either way, he loses.

Shouts come from his right, and it seems the fighting has moved off to the side a bit. The weight of the dagger in his hand is the only thing keeping him from bolting here and now, because Loki does what is best for Loki, not for a group of idiot mortals. Especially not blinded in the two senses he relies on most.

A cry of pain and fear comes from his left.

_"NATASHA–!"_ The Captain yells, a note of desperation in his voice that makes his decision for him. It's the way someone shouts when there's nothing they can do.

One of the creatures roars, Loki pinpoints the sound, and he pounces. Air rushes by during those long seconds between perch and ground—seconds in which he second-guesses himself again and again—but when his fingers grip coarse fur any hesitation vanishes. Three thousand years of conditioning kick into gear and thought melts to instinct.

The blade digs raggedly into tough flesh and the monster screams. It's not the knife he would have preferred to use for a fight, too short for such thick-skinned creatures, but it's enough of a distraction for the assassin to get up and out of range. He holds the dagger between his teeth and reaches forward, finding the right grip points and pulling the thing's head at an angle to snap its neck. It goes down heavily and Loki's thrown against a tree hard enough to stun.

Unfortunately, the little display gained the attention of Avengers and beasts alike. Quick recovery or not, this isn't good. At all. He swears colorfully in as many languages as words.

Stark's repulsors change in pitch as he turns. "Loki?"

A more pressing concern arises than the Avengers' array of emotions at present, because the ground vibrates from heavy footsteps pounding closer. Claws swipe close enough to his cheek to feel a breeze as he somersaults forward out of the way.

The now warm grip on the blade brings back memories of fights across Asgard and the realms—battles for treasure, pride, politics, and their lives. It's a strange sort of comfort. A spin points him back at what should be the creature's side just in time for an arrow to whizz by his ear and bury itself deep in its flesh. The beast makes a pained noise and turns on him, leaving just enough time to wonder if the arrows was meant for the creature or for him. Either way it's done him little good.

It's all he can do to fend off the onslaught of attacks, but once he zeroes in on the small details it becomes easier to keep track of where the thing is. Every one of its breaths and footsteps he notes to place it in the black plane of his mind. He's caught more times than he would like, and after a few minutes of sparring teeth clamp down on his arm and breaks his skin. Loki makes the most of the opportunity and uses the now concrete knowledge of its position to make a clean kill.

Behind him, the others fight their own battles as a team, calling out formations and attacks.

Stark's voice sounds in his ear. "Loki, what the hell are you doing here?"

He ducks under the swipe of a paw and lunges forward, knife meeting thin air. "I'm fighting, you useless mortal, what does it appear as though I'm doing?"

"Um, yeah, not what I meant. I was going more along the lines of _why_ are you fighting. Thanks for saving Tasha, but no offense, you're not exactly at full power right now. Ooh, that looks like it hurt."

Warmth spreads across his shoulder where claws drew blood. "Yes, thank you for your helpful observation." This time he catches a handful of fur, and tries to swing up onto the thing's back. It jolts to the right too soon, and he tumbles back onto the grass.

"Get the fuck out of here, moron, you're going to get yourself killed!"

"Too late. The Avengers know I'm on Earth, this can only end in pain."

"Never pegged you as a self-sacrificing sort of guy."

Loki scoffs. "I'm not. But letting your," he scoffs, _"friends_ die is bad for me, and this was the better option. Besides, I think you knocked my tree over." A roar sounds too close and he's cuffed in the ear, sending him rolling away.

"Awesome. Glad to know it's not because I make a good coffee buddy, or in return for the groceries I paid for. Watch ou–"

Too late. He's sent flying again.

"Alright, asshole, there's open space to your five o' clock. Get your sorry ass out of here, because if you're around when we've brought these assholes down we're coming after you, and I'm guessing you don't want tha–" A repulsor blast sounds, and then a solid thud and clang of metal. "Jarvis, switch over to team comms. Cap, watch your six! I need your shield!" Another clang. "Thanks, Jarv, switch back to call. Loki, Jarvis'll tell you where to go and if there's anything to trip over. I'll tell Happy to be waiting for you a couple blocks ove– Oh no you don't, you son of a bitch! –a couple blocks over. He won't tell anyone he saw you unless I give the word, he's cool like that. Go!"

He jumps back to avoid an attack, and makes a run for it. Stark's got a point, and if he's willing to aid his escape, then he'll hardly say no. The Avengers should be able to handle the rest of the beasts.

An oddly distorted voice filters through his headset. "Six paces and turn forty-five degrees right. There is a curb in two steps."

That is incredibly disconcerting, but the directions hold true and while his heart is pounding out of anxiety now without his cane, he doesn't trip over anything while he runs.

"Thirteen paces to the other curb, forty-five degrees to your right, one hundred and twenty-three paces forward."

Instructions keep coming, warning him of a box in the sidewalk and cars on the street, until he hears someone shout the name he's taken up on Midgard. Instinctually, he pauses and turns his head.

"Over here, man!"

What was the voice's name? Stark mentioned it… "Jarvis, is this the man Stark sent me to find?"

"It is, sir. Continue seven paces."

Loki does. The man—Happy, Stark called him? What an odd name—takes his arm and leads him to the car. He slides into the passenger seat gratefully, and waits for Happy to get in as well.

"Where to?"

It only takes a moment to decide a course of action, having planned for such an occasion. "I need to get to the nearest subway entrance with access to the #7 platform."

"You got it." The car's engine comes to life and they speed off in what he knows to be the right direction. That's a nice sign. After a few moments of slightly uncomfortable silence, the man speaks again. "So… you're the guy who led an alien invasion on the city, huh?"

"Yes."

"You kind of blew up my room."

"My apologies."

They fall back into silence.

A little while later, through absolutely wretched traffic even for Manhattan, the car comes to a more final stop and Loki steps out.

"Anything else you need?"

Loki considers for a moment, apprehensive of the fact that his cane is somewhere back where the Avengers yet fight. "Jarvis, are you able to guide me through a crowd?" The computerized voice affirms it, and he looks back in the man's direction. "Do you have a coat and a hat?"

"Yeah, of course."

"Give them to me."

There's a pause. "What?"

He sighs. "Give them to me. The hat and coat. I need them."

"But this coat's worth-"

"Right, because Stark is incapable of buying you a new one. I require them. Give them to me or I will slit your throat." The articles of clothing are handed to him, and he smiles. "My thanks." It's not ideal, but tying his hair up and donning the different clothing gives him enough difference in appearance that it will make it difficult for S.H.I.E.L.D. to find him in security footage of the crowd. The sunglasses help, too. Without another word to the driver, Loki starts toward the entrance to the subway.

With Jarvis' aid he manages not to bump into too many people (although it's unavoidable in such a dense crowd, and the voice can only speak so quickly), and finds his way toward the #7 line. Getting on it, though, is another hurdle. Until now, Jarvis had been able to guide him around the camera's blind spots, allowing the computer to constantly stay aware of his surroundings, but between the rush of passengers and number of unavoidable places where the cameras cannot see, that help will be inaccessible for a deal of it. Jarvis explains this while he waits, and he sighs. Without his cane this will be a nightmare, and he hates relying on other people… he's without much choice, though, so he asks Jarvis to point him in the direction of an elderly woman waiting on the same train. It doesn't even take a lie this time, just a little extra acting.

She's speaking to someone when the computer gives him the right angle, so he has a judgement of how far she is. Letting Jarvis fall to silence and his disability become more prevalent, he makes a call while he waits for her to finish, then approaches.

"Excuse me, ma'am?"

He hears the scrape of her shoes on the concrete. "Can I help you?" Her voice reminds him of the tailor in the northeast side of the central kingdom.

"I'm, um–" Loki looks down, smiling shyly to make himself appear less confident than he truly is. Granted, he's more than a little uncomfortable, not least because he has the Avengers on his tail and none of his usual methods to gauge his surroundings, but that's not quite the same emotion he's aiming to portray. "I'm blind, and lost my cane. Would you mind helping me on and off the train?"

She immediately starts to fret over him—definitely a mother at some point, which he'd counted on when choosing how to play her emotions. "Oh, of course you poor dear. Where are you headed?"

"Grand Central. If you are not traveling as far, then of course I wish you no such inconvenience."

The woman assures him it's not an inconvenience at all, as she's going to Queensboro Avenue. He thanks her, truly grateful that aid came without too much fuss, and apparently his manners charm her even more because she starts going on about how wonderful it is to meet a man his age who speaks and acts so politely. With her help it's not too difficult to make it to his stop, where he tells her no, he would hate to make her go out of her way and needs no more help anyway, because he has someone to help him the rest of the way. Once the train leaves, Jarvis resumes warning him of what pedestrians he can.

Loki, in his time in Manhattan, has come to know any number of people. Building relationships with the homeless and the outcasts opens opportunities that most would not realize, and it is one of these connections he plans to utilize. There is a man who has a rather specialized skill-set which will be necessary. It is he who he called earlier waiting for the #7 train, and whom he now seeks out.

"Serrure, I presume?"

He nods. "Yes. You are willing to lead me?" The bluetooth is no longer required, so he tucks the headset into his new coat and pulls the battery out of his phone before storing that too. Stark does not need to know where he's going, and he doesn't trust him to have backed out of his phone completely now that he's at least partially hacked it. He'll probably lose signal down here anyways.

"Yeah, sure. But if you get killed, don't say I didn't warn you. Cops shouldn't be an issue once we get past the gates, but it's not the easiest of places to get to. Dragging a blind guy around is gonna make it even harder."

"I'm not overly concerned. I need to access it, and you can aid me. It is quite simple."

"If you say so. Come on, then, this way."

It's hardly a far distance, but what takes longer is waiting for the crowd to thin enough that there's a window of time when both eyes are turned away and a train's just passed, giving them a safer amount of time. The man (he does not know his name, nor does he need to) pushes the gate open with a tiny squeak, and they duck into the depths of the tunnels. They stay quiet, because sound echoes off the concrete and the last thing they need is for a maintenance worker to realize that two men are wandering around down here where they're definitely not supposed to be.

Five or ten minutes into their journey over the ridiculously steep terrain, a rattling roar sounds from down the tunnel and Loki is unceremoniously dragged forward at a breakneck pace and shoved into an indent in the wall.

"Stay put!" the man hisses, and disappears from his side.

Thirty seconds later a train speeds past, close enough that he can feel the significant change in air pressure and has to cover his ears to dampen the noise. Once it's passed he's dragged back out and they continue on. The tunnel air tastes like iron and spray-paint, something so incredibly alien that it makes his hair stand on end. He can tell when they pass graffiti, even years-old writing registers with his senses. It's irritating. What is it with the mortals and putting bizarre, unnecessary chemicals in everything?

They end up on a thin ledge along the edge of the tunnel, at which point he has to let go of his guide.

"Watch the third rail. You fall off here, six hundred and twenty-five volts will be the last thing you know before you meet your maker."

All things considered, he's survived any number of painful electrocutions, but he's not going to tell him that. Thankfully, sight or not he has impeccable balance and there's no real danger of him falling so long as he minds the edge.

It's not too long until they turn off the main tunnel after that.

"Welcome to the Grand Central Trolley Loop. Abandoned since 1908. Almost nobody knows this is here, and even fewer are stupid enough to try and get to it unless they're damn good at this. I fall into the second category, by the way. Been doing this for decades. You wouldn't believe the shit that's hidden down here in the tunnels."

Loki nods and pulls out the handful of cash they'd agreed upon for the journey. "You have my thanks."

"Yeah. You know my number if you need to get anywhere else down here."

"Of course. May your travels back be safe."

"Thanks."

The footsteps recede, and he's left in the most complete silence he's heard in a long time. Even back in that wretched cave, the wind howled almost constantly outside. Now the only sound is the timely passing of trains a little ways in the distance. It's remarkably soothing. The chances of S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers even considering that he'd run to the tunnels is miniscule, and even smaller are those that they'd be willing and able to find him down here.

There's not much around—just a concrete ledge, three metal pipes, and some dirt. Most certainly not something any mortal would consider him stooping to, which is what makes it so perfect. They don't realize the conditions that he and Th–

A shiver wracks his body at the name, even just as a thought in his head. Those cold, frozen eyes, so not the brother he'd once had…

But when they had gone hunting and fighting so long ago, they'd spent months in conditions far worse than these. Sure, he's used to splendor and riches, but he is by no means so pretentious that he demands them. This will work quite nicely until the immediate danger has dissipated and he can come up with a more long-term plan.

He lays his coat out on the concrete, where the ledge meets a block on the end of the tunnel and widens a bit. The partially-stolen hat isn't important anymore so he leaves it on the top of a metal box on the wall—presumably housing some sort of electrical equipment—and takes stock of what he has with him. His dagger is in his sleeve again, he has the cellphone (although that may or may not be a risk to use, however seemingly trustworthy Stark may seem), a bluetooth headset (only as useful as the phone), and the small kit he always keeps on him in case of emergency. That leaves him with a set of lockpicks, a small flask of water, a lighter, some wire, a roll of bandages and medical tape, alcoholic wipes, antibiotics, and an energy bar. There's also a small bag of herbs, a couple crystals, and some chalk in his other pocket.

Well, it was better than nothing.

Loki sets about cleaning and dressing his wounds, which the coat had thankfully hidden for the most part so no curious mortal started asking questions. He'd have a few bruises, but they'd heal within an hour or so, and the cuts should do so almost as quickly. There was no poison or venom on the creature's claws to prevent it. Once finished to as decent an extent as he easily can under such conditions, he curls up on the coat and lets himself drift off to sleep so that his energy can be focused on recovering.

* * *

**Author's Note: **

_Áss—singular of Æsir, primary species of Asgardbr /_  
_Svartálfar—dark/black elves of Svartálfaheimrbr /_  
_Álfa—light elves of Ālfheimr_

_Just as a sidenote, for the most part I'm sticking to Old Norse spellings for consistency since the Marvel 'verses don't have all the people, places, and things that the Eddas do._

_The Grand Central Trolly Loop is a real place, and it really has been abandoned for about a century. So if you want to see where Loki's set up camp (and by camp I mean fallen asleep on a stolen coat), here's photos and a little history. It's not incredibly obvious that you have to scroll down to see them, but ignore the top bit and just head to the bottom of the page: tvsquad{{dot}}com/2012/09/04/grand-central-trolley-loop/_

_(Also, thanks go to Amy_the_Asgardian on AO3 for catching some really dumb spelling and grammatical errors)_


	8. Mindfulness

_**Author's Note: **As advance warning for future chapters, I'm going to be pulling from both mythology and some modern-day practices to help portray Loki as the god he is. I've spent more than a few hours on research for everything I mention, and have tried to stay accurate and respectful, but not having experienced them myself there's a fair chance I'll make a few errors. If you catch any, it would be awesome if you'd let me know so that I can fix things and learn from my mistakes._

* * *

Ever since his fall from the Bifrost, his mind's been in chaos. The voices in his head have been getting louder and more insistent, but without magic there's nothing he can do. The destruction tore out more than just his connection to Yggdrasil, thanks to how woven into him his power had been, and certain aspects of himself are in a bit of disarray. There's been an insistent tugging at the back of his thoughts, weak at first, but growing stronger as the weeks pass. Up until now he's largely ignored it since he's been busy, but now it could prove useful.

It's been a week and a half since he first made his escape into the Loop, and he's getting bored. Sure, if he needs to he can stay here indefinitely—his body can go without food and water for a great deal of time—but not being able to see anything is frustrating and cuts down on things to focus on. The time must be waited out, though, to get the Avengers off his tail. He uses it to plot.

One of the things he needs most is his cane, since without it he's essentially unable to be independent. He's also a bit thirsty, and could use some of the amenities from his apartment. Once he has those he'll be in much better shape and spirits, and it will open more opportunities. There's another sharp tug at his mind.

_Of course._

Loki smiles, a plan suddenly blooming in his mind. It will be difficult in his current state, but the invoking appears to be relatively strong, and with the guidance of the one calling, this should work.

He settles into a comfortable position and easily sinks into meditation. There's little point in waiting, and if he's wanted now then it's worth not wasting time and then having to hope they'll try again within a short span of time. With such peacefulness in the tunnel and the relative safety it grants him, it's easy to clear his mind and drift deeper. Now that he's acknowledged it the pull forms a sort of connection, a pathway from his mind to theirs, and gingerly Loki steps out onto it. This is one of the things weakened after his fall, and he would do well to be wary in case the tie weakens or breaks entirely.

It takes a great deal of time and mental effort on both parties' parts, but finally he manages to brush up against the mind he seeks.

_**Hello, precious one.**_

He can feel the shock, being so close to… her? Yes, it definitely feels like a girl. This shouldn't be so hard, normally he'd be completely aware of her without any conscious effort, and the summoning would be a simple matter. It's not clear if this is the void's doing, or Odin's, but it's seriously affected his mental abilities.

_Loki?_

_**Aye.**_

_We- We were starting to worry you'd forgotten about us._

_**You are not forgotten,**_ he says firmly, _**ever. I have always heard, always listened, and always cared. I'm afraid I've been unable to reach out, though, due to recent events.**_

She doesn't ask, and he appreciates the courtesy.

_Thank you, fulltrui._

Loki smiles to himself. Such devotion is growing rarer nowadays, with the decline in the old ways, but at the same time he's developed more personal relationships in some regards. It largely depends on the worshipper and their understanding of the gods. Of him.

_**Why have you called for me?**_

_There is a ritual we'd like some help on, if you're willing. And we'd kind of wanted to speak with you. If that's okay?_

He sends a general affirmative feeling her way.

_Some rules first, though._ The girl sets her boundaries, and asks if he'll still take her as a horse. The requests she makes are wise—not letting her get hurt, not doing anything illegal, etc.—and he easily agrees.

_**I'll warn you in advance—this won't be easy on either of us. You'll likely feel unwell when I leave.**_

She agrees.

_**I would request something in return.**_ A wave of curiosity, desire to please him, and wariness sweep through her mind. _**I require a mortal body for a task. Is that acceptable?"**_

Hesitation.

_**No harm will come to you.**_

Again, she agrees.

Loki grins, bracing himself for the full transition. _**Then it's time to play.**_

As he'd expected, it's painful at best and takes a ridiculous amount of energy to force himself in. He mentally apologizes to his horse, then locks her away for the time being. After a moment to adjust to the new body, he looks up with a grin.

"Hello."

There's a brief pause, and then the other girl speaks. "Oh, hi, um, wow."

He laughs. "This one says you wished to speak with me."

"Yeah. Ah, we got food for you if you wanted something?"

"I'm afraid that while my hopes were to regain sight in this body, that has not happened. What is on the table?"

Ceramic scrapes across wood as a bowl is pushed toward him. "There's candy, fruit, and crackers in there, but if there's something else you want I can get it. We had stuff for margaritas, too, so there's one to the right. It's spicy."

"Fantastic," he says with another grin, inspecting the contents of the dish. "I'm guessing from the pair of you's reactions that this is your first time horsing?"

"My first time being with someone when a god takes possession, but not her's doing it. Thank you for coming."

Loki nods once, acknowledging her. "Of what did you care to discuss?"

"We were kind of wondering… where you've been? I mean, I know it's not entirely our business, but nobody's heard from you in over a year. We're all kind of worried."

"Things in Asgard have been… complicated. It's difficult for me to respond to prayers at present; I was only able to ride this one because you've been so persistent and were in close enough vicinity. I want you to tell the others you mentioned that I have hardly abandoned them—there is a great difference between ignoring and not responding. Do you have cheese? I want cheese." The margarita does indeed hold quite a kick, which is enjoyable.

While the girl runs off, he stretches, getting a feel for the new body. It's significantly less sore than his own—concrete isn't his favorite bed. He decides to take a look around, and starts poking through her things. There are any number of interesting electronic devices, it seems, he recognizes a few that people he knows own. Gaming devices (those he takes interest in, but their reliance on imagery makes them largely useless for the time being), a laptop, and a phone are the first things he finds, then he stumbles across her jewelry and it's significantly more fun. There are all sorts of materials and textures, one that's made of cool stone beads and another that feels like chips of some sort of stone. A couple pendants, too, and some feathery things.

She comes back and he sits again, content with his new snack, and helps her with what she'd asked. It's nothing that requires the sort of magic he once channeled thorugh Yggdrasil, just seiðr, and as such it's pretty easy. Loki's kind of missed this. Working with mortals. Not in the way that he does with Matt and Franklin, although it's nice to work as equals, or the bizarre form Stark seems to desire. Centuries have passed in which he's been a god to the mortals, working with and guiding them, and causing chaos when he thinks it will do them good. Sometimes just because he can, too, because it's in his nature. If only S.H.I.E.L.D. would realize that a little mayhem every once in a while is good for them… He laughs. The foolish mortals, always assuming that everything's about them. It's not like he has any real vendetta, save for maybe against Stark for his idiocy. Those who respect him he tends to respect in turn, and those who actively worship him he likes to reward. Things are harder, with his capacity for fully focusing on so many things at once diminished, and it's incredibly frustrating.

Loki turns the discussion to her life, gleaning what he can of her prayers and thoughts from the cacophony of noise in his head. He gives her advice, and a bit of a talking to, and it's nice to have someone listen to his advice about such subjects instead of running off and doing the exact opposite. Really, it's nice to be a god. He chats with the girl whose body he's currently borrowing while he helps the other, asking about current events amongst his worshippers and what's happened in his absence. Apparently one of the more prevalent members of the community has been in contact with him over the past months. Loki makes a note to deal with that issue in the coming days.

Admittedly, his primary intentions for speaking with them today were selfish, although he's trying to be suitably helpful to them in return, but there's something he needs to do that requires working with another mortal. When they're done with the two girls' requests he stands and lets his horse's consciousness back in until they're in equal control. It would be so much easier to just keep full possession, but this will be difficult without vision and he doesn't really want to take a guide again. The fewer people know about this the better, and the safer he'll stay. He may be trapped in darkness, but she can walk confidently with her own sight still intact.

They stand, and he looks down to the other girl. "Don't worry, I'll take care of her."

There's a brief pause. "I trust you."

Loki smiles. Trust, what a funny thing. The humans give it so easily to beings they cannot even begin to comprehend, and perhaps that's what he finds so endearing. Perhaps they're a bit naïve, but he does care for them. Valkyries, does S.H.I.E.L.D. truly think him incapable of more than one emotion at a time? Cretins.

The pair of them make their way through the city, her navigating their surroundings and himself giving directions as needed. Loki purposefully takes them through a slightly convoluted course to throw her off a little, because while it wouldn't be hard to note the street names the chances of her checking are slim. Mortals are like that. It's not that he thinks she'll come after him, but a little extra insurance is always a good idea.

When they get to the right building, he takes over complete possession again so that she has no memory of events. Pulling one of the bobby pins from her hair, he considers what he'll need. Why is it that she had to use such strong pins? Her body isn't strong enough to easily snap it, so it takes a few minutes to do so effectively. He uses the lock to bend the pieces into lock picks and sets about breaking in.

Naturally, in what may have been slight paranoia he'd purchased an incredibly difficult lock to pick and warded his apartment with the strongest types he could with only mortal witchcraft at his disposal. If there's one thing he's good at, though, it's getting into places people want to keep him out of. It takes five minutes at most.

Once inside his path is familiar and easy to navigate. He's not sure when or if he'll ever be able to come back, and he'll miss this. It was quaint, but cozy in a mortal sort of way.

Loki sighs. Of course defending himself would lead to him getting into more trouble than ever. This seems to be a recurring pattern in his life… Oh well, it's too late to change things now.

There's a backpack in his room that should be large enough to fit his purposes, and he brings it out to the kitchen table. The first things in are a couple changes of clothes and a blanket, followed by energy bars and the bottles of supplements he's collected since it's difficult to maintain anything even resembling a healthy diet on a human income. He grabs sleeping pills and painkillers from the cabinet, since the nightmares have returned with a vengeance. There's another dagger under his pillow he decides could be useful, too. Maybe a vial of poison? Couldn't hurt. Another bottle of water, his phone charger, all the cash he has, his computer and its charger, and a tin of mints because they'd fit in the little side pocket.

His bag full, he slings it over his shoulder and finds his cane. That should do it for a month or so.

After making a quick call to the man who guided him through the tunnels again, to ask if he'd deliver something (he would, for a price that Loki was willing to pay), he heads to the subway station to catch a ride to Grand Central where he'll meet him. Now that he has the cane it's not hard to find his own way. Even in the city, people seemed to respect the personal space of a blind man. Not everyone, of course, but it is significantly easier than having that stupid computer try to speak quickly enough and fail miserably.

The bag gets handed off, he gives him the payment in advance (which would be stupid except for the fact that there's the possibility of more money for him later on), and lets the girl back in enough to get her home easily. He makes sure the other girl is there to help her with what will inevitably be an unpleasant experience when he leaves, then says a quick goodbye and gives his thanks before slipping back into his own body. When he does, the bag is sitting at his side. Fantastic.

*'*'*

It's another three weeks before Loki once more feels the subtle tug of someone seeking him out. He debates it for a while—he's low on food and water, but not particularly desperate—though if there's one thing he _is,_ it's curious. Down here, there's no way of telling what the movements of his adversaries are. It's been over a month since he fled into his little tunnel, and he's bored out of his mind. Most of it he's spent in meditation or pacing up and down the space he's started to call home. If it's safe to come out and hide somewhere a bit more comfortable, that would be appreciated.

As usual, curiosity gets the best of him and he figures why not. Besides, if nothing else he'll get a bit of company for an hour or so.

Again, he asks to use the girl's body for an errand in return for his aid—it's not the same two as before, there's four of them this time, actually—and she acquiesces. He helps and speaks with them (and they give him food and drink again, which he loves, because even if they don't do anything for his true body he can still appreciate the taste), then learns that one of the girls in the group is blind. Her cane is given without protest, which makes things infinitely easier since he doesn't have to return to his apartment again. This girl doesn't seem to use bobby pins, anyway, and he'd have to steal a paperclip from somewhere if he wanted to get in.

Unlike last time, he has no desire for gathering supplies. It's a hassle, and there's no real need at this point. Instead, he decides to make a bit of a gamble on, well, not trustworthiness exactly, but whether or not he'll be revealed, and heads toward Stark Tower. Getting there is a bit of a trick, since he doesn't know that side of the city well and the constant commotion after so long in silence is distracting. Cars honking, people shouting, the growl of motors and the whine of power tools… The discussion with the humans helped ease him into it, but it's still a little overwhelming.

He ends up having to ask for directions, not remembering the exact location of the building (he was otherwise occupied during the battle, and it was hard to miss something as tall and brightly-lit as it was). To the mortal body, with the swish of automatic doors comes a welcome warmth that he would otherwise not have paid attention to. As it is, the air is gaining enough of a bite to be uncomfortable in thin clothing for extended periods of time.

Judging from the murmur of voices and occasional laughs, the lobby is relatively well-occupied. Two businessmen are in an argument with the receptionist over something insignificant—how typically mortal. There's a TV in one corner playing the news, so he sits on a cushioned bench and listens for a time.

Apparently, the Avengers have been busy with a new threat; the branches of a group called Aim? Some idiotic plot involving kidnapping the president of the country and blowing people up. It's messy, overly complicated, and generally in bad taste. Loki rolls his eyes while the newscasters discuss the other branches of the company that yet stand, which the merry band of misfits is after. And Stark's house has been destroyed? He can't help but laugh at the idiocy of announcing the location of his home to a terrorist and challenging him to fight, although he must admit that it took a certain amount of daring. That's something he would have loved to see—chaos, everywhere. A pity he missed it.

The two men finally give up on whatever they were fighting about, leaving the receptionist free. He makes his way over toward where their voices were coming from and smiles sweetly.

"Can I help you?"

Playing up the innocence of the younger woman's body he's using, Loki looks in her direction and acts a bit lost, eyes just the tiniest bit wider and fidgeting with the cane.

"Yes, um, hi. I spoke with Mr. Stark on the phone a few weeks ago. He asked for my help on a project, but I had to finish what I was doing at work, and now that I'm free I figured I'd speak with him since he wanted me to see him when I had the chance…" He trails off.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"Uh, no, my phone broke and I don't have his number anymore."

Her voice becomes a bit skeptical, obviously assuming he's lying in an attempt to see the man, which is logical but not technically true. Nothing he told her was false.

She sighs. "What's your name?"

A quick glance back through the girl's memories yields an answer that's suitable. "Morgan. Morgan Streets. He mentioned something about a Jarvis?"

The receptionist makes a call, and he only gets half of the conversation. It's not exceptionally useful, just relaying what he'd already said. He taps on the glass desk absentmindedly, considering his options.

An elevator dings. "Alright," comes a familiar voice from his left as the door slides open, "I'm interested. 'Cause I definitely don't recognize you, but not many people know about Jarvis. _She,"_ there's a pause in which he guesses he's pointing at the woman sitting at the desk, like that would do a blind girl any good, "doesn't even know who Jarvis is."

"Could we speak in private?"

"I'm kind of in a monogamous relationship right now, or I'd totally take you up on that."

Loki huffs and rolls his eyes. "Your mind is perpetually in the gutter. That's not what I meant. I wouldn't sleep with you if the world were ending."

"Ooh, that hurt."

"It was meant to. Now, can we speak alone? Unless you like discussing sensitive subjects in public."

"Oh, alright, fine… you're no fun."

"Sorry."

There's a presence at his side now. "Want me to lead you?"

Yes. _Norns,_ yes, a guide would be so much appreciated right now, he's so far past sick of wandering foreign places alone and without a cane. He reaches out toward the voice and finds Stark's arm with an amount of relief he'll never admit to anyone but himself.

"It's weird doing this with someone shorter with me. I've got a friend who used to let me guide him, but he was ridiculously tall."

He's not _that_ tall. Stark's just short.

They go into what must be a conference room of some sort, judging from the length of the glass table. He ends up leaning against the wall, while the mortal sits on it.

"So." A chair squeaks on the wood floor as it's slid to the side.

He smirks. "So I heard you blew up your suits for the fun of it. Really?"

"Hey! It was a celebratory holiday and the-president-didn't-die-and-I-didn't-either fireworks celebration!"

"I see."

"Shut up! And what the hell are you here for, anyway? Don't think you can sidetrack my curiosity."

Letting all pretense go, Loki looks in his direction, unimpressed. "You are insufferable, Stark. I see you've been busy in my absence."

"What?"

He sighs. "Þú ert sannarlega barnaleg. It's just as well that you paid for my groceries, because thanks to you I never got to eat them. Abhorrent mortal."

"Wait, _Loki?"_

"I don't know why you sound so surprised. I don't exactly have an easy path back to Asgard, and wouldn't take it if I did. Valkyries only know what they'll do if they find me walking free. I wouldn't be surprised if I've been outlawed and am to be killed on sight."

"Asgard sounds seriously fucked up."

He shrugs, shifting his (their, really) weight to the other foot. "It is what it is. Do they know I escaped?"

"Yeah, Fury told them. Schmancy mister Odinson's pretty–"

Loki cuts him off, grabbing the man's shirt and digging nails into his skin without really thinking about it. "Do not say that name in my presence," he snarls, "unless you wish me to tear you limb from limb and scatter the pieces to the four winds."

"Woah, man—can I call you man? Considering the, y'know, sudden genderswap. How did you even manage that? Did you get your scary magic shit back? How did you find a way to do that? I demand an explanation—man, woman, or variation thereupon, _chill out."_

How in Valhalla does he even fit that many questions into what sounds like one sentence? It takes a moment to separate them all out. "You may call me whatever you wish, gender is largely meaningless for a shapeshifter. No, I have not regained my magic, but I do retain fragments of my godhood, although they are weaker than they should be. While I cannot initiate it, a strong enough invocation can allow me to ride a mortal body."

Stark breaks down into laughter.

"Get your mind out of the gutter, not like that!"

"Sure…"

He huffs and crosses his arms. "The mortals call it horsing. The idea is that a god takes possession of the human's, or horse's, body, to provide direct communication between them and the mortals."

"So you've hijacked some chick's body? That's creepy."

"I was invited, Stark. With a great deal of conviction, for me to be able to manage this in my weakened state. More of a pull than a push."

"Still creepy."

Loki rolls his eyes. "That's not relevant."

There's a steady beat of fingers on glass. "So what is? Thought you were busy hiding– Where _were_ you hiding, anyway?"

"Are. Present tense. And why would I tell you? Somewhere you and your ridiculously attired friends can't find me."

"Woah there," Stark says, and there's a clap of rubber on wood as he hops down from the table. "Friends implies you trust someone not to stab you as soon as you turn away."

"What would you call them, then?"

"Conditional allies. Honestly, I'm kind of waiting for Tasha to break my arm for ordering from the wrong pizza joint. She's like that. What do you call your fighting buddies?"

"Brothers-in-arms or comrades, depending upon the group. Sif and the Warriors three would call me their rearguard, which is as much an indication of trust as saying I was their brother-in-arms."

Stark whistles. "You're saying Thor's buddies _trusted_ you?"

"Of course they did." He rolls his eyes. "At least to some extent. We _had_ to trust each other, otherwise we wouldn't have survived. Are you telling me you don't trust the Avengers in combat?"

"Oh, no, I trust them as long as we have the same goal. It's the rest of the time that I watch my back."

"I suppose that is fair. How _are_ the dear Avengers, if I might ask?"

There's a pause. "Did you do all this freaky voodoo possession to come over here and try to get me to give something away?"

"It's not voodoo, peasant, and no. Well, not entirely. I'm more interested in how devotedly they're searching for me and how vigilant S.H.I.E.L.D. is being."

"Okay, gotcha. That makes sense, I guess. But I mean, it's been a month and a half since you popped up, and last time you did you kind of saved Tasha's life, so you're not our number-one priority. No offense."

"None taken."

"Cool. That doesn't mean we've forgotten about you, though, so I'd keep your head down. I think Fury's realized by now that sticking you in a cell in the middle of S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters is a bad idea, but he's pretty keen on having a nice sit-down chat after everything that happened. He's still pissed about you destroying his fancy new helicarrier. And the city, too, of course, but I think mainly the helicarrier. I'm guessing Asgard is a little more concerned with you than we are, but you can probably put the battery back in your phone now."

How did he- His confusion must show on his face, because the man picks up on it.

"You hung up on Jarvis in a subway station, and then went off the grid completely. Even if you'd turned your phone off I would have been able to get to it. The most obvious solution would be to pull out the battery, and I'm pretty sure you're smart enough to think of that."

Loki smirks. Of course he's smart enough. Most likely smarter than the mortal has guessed. People tend to underestimate him, which works out to his advantage most of the time.

"For the record, I didn't try to track you or anything. Figured if you wanted to run then that was your business. I wouldn't want anyone tracking me."

He bows his head. "It is appreciated."

"Yeah, no problem."

After a moment's hesitation he adds, "As was the aid in my escape."

"You kind of saved our asses, consider it payback."

"Then your debt is repaid in full. What is the hour?"

There's a pause, in which he assumes Stark is checking his watch or phone or a clock on the wall.

"Four twenty-seven, why?"

He sighs. "I need to get back. This one has done a great deal for me and I'll not keep her longer than necessary."

"Aww… no fun in the workshop?"

"No, I can't stay for whatever sort of convoluted fun you've dreamed up. Perhaps in a week or two, if I can find another horse." Loki walks to the door, calling back to him briefly as he pushes it open. "Gott kvöld, Stark."

"Bye, creepy girl-possessing weirdo!"

On the way back to the girl's house he stops to use one of the few payphones left in the area to once more call the tunnel-walker, asking him to bring a few things next time he's passing by. When he leaves her body (taking a bit to ground her and help her transition more easily back, considering the time he borrowed) and snaps back to his own, he's left with a killer migraine and generally feels like his mind has been scrambled and scattered. Thankfully, his supplies are brought promptly—which earns the man a hefty payment—and he takes a decent dose of painkillers and downs a couple sleeping pills. He's out cold within the half-hour, and falls into a thankfully peaceful slumber on his new pillow.

* * *

**_Author's Note: _**_Horsing gods of the Norse pantheon:_  
_northernshamanism{{DOT}}org/shamanic-techniques/spirit-possession{{DOT}}html_

_Fulltrui: Translates roughly to "trusted friend" or "fully trusted (one)," and indicates a certain level of closeness or devotion to a deity:_  
_lairbhan{{DOT}}blogspot{{DOT}}com/2012/12/fulltrui-dedication-to-deity-in{{DOT}}html_

_Loki doesn't know A.I.M. is an acronym, having only just heard it, hence why it's spelled Aim from his point of view. Don't worry, I know it's not the correct way to write it._


	9. Sleep

Loki screams. The pain is sudden and unexpected—it's been longer than usual, and he'd nearly forgotten about it. Rage swells up unbidden in his chest as though it's trying to warm him against the cold of the tunnel and the ice seeping into his mind.

While he's still in control enough to do so, he grabs the roll of bandages and uses it to form a sort of gag. He can't control the shrieks, and he well knows that if someone were to hear (which would be likely considering the ever-present echoes), this is not a state that he'd like to be found in. It's not a perfect solution, but it should at least help to an extent.

Things progress in a similar fashion to the times before. Only the Norns will know how long he spends clawing at his hair and arms, and they'll not tell. His sanity slowly slips away until he's curled up in a ball, giggling.

With a cold that can freeze even a frost giant, the stabbing icicles spread from his chest outward and leave him shivering violently on the concrete despite his best efforts to stop. Worst of all are the glaciers that seem to cleave his mind in two—slow moving but persistent, carving deep gashes in their wake… and what feels like another presence filtering into his soul. Were it not for the certainty that none else were nearby, he could swear he can hear someone laughing darker than his vision in the distance.

_nonono not again stop please no, stop, hel– hjálp, vinsamlegast… Gera það að hætta, nei nei nei, ekki aftur, gera það að hætta-!_

His thoughts slip back into High Asgardian, the English he'd been maintaining to make speech on Midgard easier forgotten in the wake of so complete an agony. He writhes, falling from the ledge onto the dirt below, and kicks out with enough force to leave a dent in the concrete. The gag does its job for the most part, although for a fleeting second a thought passes through his mind of the possibility it only makes it worse. The muffled sounds only serve to increase the pain of the wails hidden behind the fabric.

When he finds the strength and temporary control he heats one of his daggers with the lighter again, dropping it twice and having to relight the flame with shaking fingers, but eventually the blade reaches at least a slightly painful temperature and he drags it up his leg beside the old scars in order to take back control and focus on besides the ice.

As usual, it doesn't work.

His grip of the glamour Odin cast on his stolen babe weakens until he can no longer cling to it, and his skin reverses to revolting jötunn blue. Like the rest of this wasn't enough to already break him.

_skrímsli. þú ógeðslegur, hataði hlutur. dýrið án sálar…_

_NEI, NEI, FÁ ÚT-!_

Bleeding, broken, and bruised, Loki lies on the dank tunnel floor like a hound beaten after a failed hunt. The rough sounds of trains passing by don't register through the static that comprises his vision and hearing—it's as though his senses are both overloaded and completely deprived at the same time, and it terrifies him beyond anything he's felt before. If he doesn't wake up from it this time? He'll rot alone in the darkness as a feast for the rats. A fallen prince, a once-king, unloved and forgotten in the depths of Midgard's unforgiving city.

But if he can focus through the screams and convulsions, the tunnel-walker helped him get more painkillers. If he could just reach the bottle…

It takes far too long to do so, and even longer to open the thrice-cursed thing, but if there's even the tiniest chance that it will take the edge off then it's worth the effort.

He doesn't know if it's the pills or just his body giving out from exhaustion, but he finally falls unconscious.

The frost still creeps through his body in his sleep, and he can't fight it away.

*'*'*

Two months have passed since he last talked to Loki, which had been sixteen days after the god had first shown up in the girl's body (which was still really creepy) and the third time they'd spoken in that span. He'd looked like shit again, not unlike the day he'd found the god in the coffee shop a month or so ago and gone grocery shopping with him; that's still a strange memory. How the hell is this his life? Loki had seemed in slightly higher spirits, those times, though, in spite of how worn out he'd looked.

For reasons he doesn't want to think too hard on, he's come to enjoy the time they spend together. The god is brilliant and quick-witted, takes nobody's shit (there's a certain lab technician who will never harass women ever, _ever_ again), and curious to a fault. If someone had told Tony six months ago that hanging out with the god of mischief and chaos would be fun, well, he would have believed them—because come on, mischief and chaos—but then proceed to tell them they were crazy if they thought he'd actually do it. Turns out he really has, though, and has enjoyed every second of it that doesn't include not-entirely-empty threats to his life and personal safety.

It's probably stupid, all things considered, but he's starting to get a little worried. Sure, Loki could have been having a hard time finding another horse, or decided to move somewhere further away from what he seemed to think was the threat S.H.I.E.L.D. posed (and which he's seemed to have blown a bit out of proportion, all things considered). All the same, he'd seemed to have every intention to return again soon, to continue their debate on the fashion sense of whichever moron revamped Steve's suit to have scale mail all over the shoulders. It looks ridiculous, and while the god can't actually see it, the mental picture he's established has got to be hilarious. His input is priceless, and he has an extensive and interesting amount of knowledge when it comes to armor.

But he hasn't showed up since then, and Tony is bored. Again. Also slightly worried. For dumb reasons.

"Jarvis, how much do you think Loki would hate me if I decided to track him down?"

"Most likely a great deal, sir."

"Awesome, pull up his phone records, past GPS data, and any of the security footage of him you stored on my private server while you were overwriting it in the public record."

If he'd programed Jarvis to be able to sigh, the AI probably would have.

Cyan-bordered windows flicker up around him, presenting a barrage of information concerning everything Loki has done in the past three months since he'd first ran from the fight. It's not much—the god has hidden his tracks well—but he still left a few clues if one knew how to look for them.

First of all, Loki had showed him where he lived. That means that he can figure out his home phone number, and with that it's not difficult to steal the list of his calls from the phone company. Secondly, he wasn't invisible to cameras and doesn't know where their blind spots were since he can't see them, which lets Tony track his movements to an extent. So does the fact that he kept the GPS on most of the way, so even when he _did_ pass through a blind spot, it's easy to find him. The god had also mentioned offhandedly that he had to be within a certain range for the whole demon-possession thing to work, and if that's true (although, god of lies) then that helps zero in on where he could be judging from where he'd gone off-grid. From there, the approximate area of his location is significantly more specific.

There's one number Loki had called multiple times, from his cell phone, home phone, the girls' cell phones, and a pay phone. That was his number-one mistake.

Tony calls the number himself, and finds that the man was paid to keep his mouth shut. An impressive sum, at that.

As it so happens, though, Tony can pay even more. The man agrees to show him the way.

"What, you can't just tell me?"

The man laughs. "It wouldn't do you much good."

They agree to meet at Grand Central station the next day; Tony brings a check, and the man brings two flashlights.

"I'm not responsible if you get killed," he's told. "This is one of the more dangerous places I've gone, and you come at your own risk. Got it?"

He scoffs. "Oh, please. I fight super-villains on a weekly basis; I laugh in the face of danger."

"If you say so."

Thirteen minutes pass in which they just stand against the wall, and he becomes increasingly bored and irritated. "Come on, no time like the present! I'm growing old over here. Grey hair is only so classy."

"Unless you want to get caught by the police, I suggest you wait."

Tony huffs and crosses his arms, but shuts up for another seven long minutes. Seemingly nothing changes, but suddenly he's being dragged toward a gate that says in bright, bold letters, "DANGER: DO NOT ENTER." That doesn't slow the man down, so Tony doesn't bother stopping either. He's handed a flashlight, told to stay quiet, and not fall off the ledge if he doesn't want to die a painful death.

Awesome.

Glancing around the arched tunnel he realizes that, yeah, this is pretty damn dangerous. Whoops.

The more he thinks about it, the more pieces fit together. "Oh, Loki, you clever thing…" he whispers. If the god hadn't told him so much about himself—not that it was an awful lot, but enough to track him with—there was no way he would have even considered him fleeing down here. The sound of his breath echoes through the darkness, and he shivers.

He's so caught up in staying on the ledge and not ending up twitching and smoking on the third rail that he doesn't catch the rumble behind them at first.

_"Run!"_ The man takes off.

Tony follows close behind, heart pounding in a way it never has before. That noise is definitely getting closer, and it hasn't taken him long to figure out what it is.

The man taps the edge of a indent in the concrete as he runs past it, and shouts. "Get in!"

He doesn't stop to question, hoping he doesn't get turned into scrambled human breakfast food, and the other sprints to a space further down. The tunnel grows progressively brighter and he flattens himself as much as possible against the wall while the train barrels past. Even bracing himself against the sides, the pressure difference still threatens to pull him out and against the train. How did Loki even manage to get down here without being killed?

When it's passed, he has to take a moment to breathe and stop freaking out because _holy shit that was close._ Now he gets why the guy said this was risky. How the hell is the bastard so composed right now?

His heart is pounding in his chest for the rest of the journey until the thin strip they'd been moving across opens up into the entrance of a pump room. His guide looks back and forth across the track, then points at it.

"See that rail there? Don't touch it." Without any further ado, he jumps down onto the track and walks calmly across, taking care to avoid the strip of fiery (okay not really, more like smoky) death.

After a moment of hesitation, Tony follows. He's never really thought about it before, but staring at something so innocuous while knowing exactly what will happen if you touch it by mistake is ridiculously terrifying. It's with a great deal of caution that he steps over it. On the other side are a couple stairs up, and a yawning void of darkness.

The man gestures down the hall. "There you go. Grand Central trolley loop."

"How far have we come?"

"About a block, block and a half."

_"What?"_ There is no way it's only been a block. More like six, at least.

"We started under Lexington Avenue, now we're under Park. It's kind'a steep, so give or take a little bit for that. You need anything else?"

Tony considers for a moment. "To get out, do I just go up the hill back East?"

"Uh-huh."

Considering it's Loki he's dealing with… maybe it would be better not to throw another person into the mix. God only knows what the hell he's up to down here. If getting back above ground is just a straight shot from here, then there's not much use keeping the guy around anyway. He hands him a check for a few thousand dollars.

"Nah, I'm good. Go buy yourself something fancy."

It's disconcerting how dark it is down here, and imagining anyone hiding down here is a scary thought. Then again, the god is blind, so it probably doesn't matter either way. Personally, he's starting to get a bit claustrophobic, and is actively trying to forget certain past events. He casts the flashlight beam around the abandoned tunnel, getting a feel for the size.

_Underground lair. I so called it._

"Loki?" His voice echoes in an incredibly disconcerting way, but once it fades there's nothing but silence. Wandering around, he calls out a few more times, but is met with only nothingness response. Then again, this little hole in the ground isn't exactly somewhere he can see the god happily inhabiting… It's stuffy, dank, and freezing cold, a fact not helped by the temperatures this late into December. It feels like he's wandered into one of the walk-in freezers back in the R&D labs that they have for temperature-sensitive chemicals.

After another eerily quiet minute, just when he's about to turn back and try to find where else the crazy maybe-ex super-villain could have hidden himself away, the beam of his flashlight illuminates a backpack and cane. So this _is_ his lair! Kind of a dreary place. When he turns around, he finally finds Loki.

The god is lying prone, tangled in a blanket with his long black hair fanned out behind him. At first Tony assumes he's asleep, but once he gets closer it only takes a moment to realize that's not the case.

"Loki?" He's cold and clammy, pale even for him. It's more than a little frightening to see the god, who'd been thrown around by Bruce and come out with a couple scratches, so weak and helpless. Even blind, Loki was a force to be reckoned with, which they'd all seen firsthand when he jumped into the fray a few months ago. Now, though? He's barely breathing. Tony glances around, searching for–

"Lunesta, huh? Fair enough… how the _hell_ did you get your hands on morphine?"

Considering the crowd he hung out with as a kid and the sort of parties he used to frequent, Tony knows the look of a drug overdose.

He just never thought he'd see it on a god.

Fuck.

Getting back up to the station unseen and in one piece is going to be hard enough, so how the hell is he supposed to drag Loki along with him? Because he's not leaving him down here to die, and they need to get out of here pronto if the god's going to have any sort of chance.

He takes a moment to collect his thoughts, grabs his cell, and inches as far away from the abandoned tunnel as he dares. Down here, even _his_ phones don't have great service. He makes hhis way back to the trolley loop and runs his fingers through his hair in agitation. There's got to be _some_ way to get a message out… Oh. Of course. The trains have wifi. Sure, they're hurtling past pretty quickly, but all he needs to do is send twenty-four characters.

_J: stp 7 trn w; 3 rl off_

He finishes typing just as a train flies past, and thanks to some brilliant engineering when it came to his phone (not to stroke his own ego, or anything) the text goes through.

Given the upload speed of the train's connection, Jarvis' processing time, and the stopping power of an R188 (thank whoever's listening for automated trains), it should take about thirty-four seconds to guarantee their safety. That's just enough time to figure out how the hell to pick up a guy who's 6' 2" and ridiculously heavy for how skinny he looks.

Tony folds up the cane, throws it in the backpack, and slings the bag over his shoulder. It's a bit of a trick to untangle the blanket from the god's legs, and seriously, how did he even manage that? When he has, though, he drapes it back over him, balances the flashlight a bit awkwardly on his stomach, and, with a good deal of effort, manages to lift Loki into his arms. Damn, it's a good thing he works out. Even as strong as he is, this is going to be painful.

Possibly the worst part is that it's literally all uphill from here, and a very steep hill at that. Hauling the god up is a battle that feels endless, even though he knows now how short a distance it really is. He forces himself to move quickly knowing that time is precious, and calls out to Jarvis now that he's far enough out to have signal.

"Jarv, when I get out of here, I'm going to need a distraction. I don't have time for people asking questions."

"Is there anything particular you have in mind?" comes the AI's voice from his pocket.

"Couldn't care less. And get Happy to the nearest Grand Central door, pronto. Emergency exits work."

"Of course, sir."

His mind is moving a mile a minute, figuring out a course of action for once he gets out of the terminal. From a medical standpoint, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s the way to go. They've got the facilities and training for shit like this. Then again, handing over a war criminal—although he's always been a little iffy on that title, since technically Loki hasn't committed any war crimes and the ethics of the whole mind-control thing have been debated about for decades—essentially into the Council's hands is something that he'll probably feel guilty about for a while afterwards.

There's always a normal hospital, but that'll last about three minutes before they realize something's up and then S.H.I.E.L.D. will be on them anyway in no time.

Tony scowls. Government.

Part of him wants to call Bruce, because he has basic medical training, but he's halfway around the world saving babies and kittens or whatever it is he's doing. He's got a personal doctor, because he trusts S.H.I.E.L.D. even less than he does the Avengers, but that would take too long.

It's all on him.

Fantastic.

Well, to be honest, if there wasn't a choice he'd take the god to Fury, except there is since he's dealt with overdoses before. More than once, actually. What that says about his life probably isn't good.

After such complete darkness, the piercing white of the fluorescents is blinding. "Jarvis? Now would be a really great time for something crazy to happen."

Seven seconds after he asks, while he's pushing open the gate to get back out onto the platform, the fire alarms start blaring at what has to be a higher decibel than they're meant to. Everyone starts scrambling towards the doors in a panic, and the officers and guards who had been standing around are trying to create some sort of orderly fashion. It's not working.

It's a good cover, though, because nobody's paying attention to them. He slips into the crowd while chaos does the rest. If Loki were awake right now he'd be having the time of his life, but instead Tony's arms are in more pain than they've been in a long time, and when he finally reaches the car Happy brought he's wondering how he managed to carry the god at all.

"Tony, what's going on? Jarvis didn't tell me."

Oh, right. He'd told Jarvis not to mention anything about Loki back when they'd first started hiding the surveillance footage.

"Overdose." He lies Loki down in the backseat and climbs in beside him, pulling the god's head into his lap. "Get back to the tower, pronto. Laws are for losers."

"What?"

"Tower. Fast. _Now."_

"Gotcha, boss."

Who do gods pray to? _Do_ they pray? He vaguely remembers Thor mentioning something about that, but he was probably playing Abduction or something else mind-numbingly pointless. There are way too many team meetings. Well, if they do pray, then thank whoever that is that Happy is his driver—he knows all the shortcuts and isn't afraid to break speed limits when it matters.

The car screeches to a halt in the garage and Happy's at the door before he can even open it, ready to help get the god out and up to the penthouse. Thankfully he's not worn out from trekking uphill through a subway tunnel, because Tony's arms are going to be sore for a month after that. When they reach the doors to it, Jarvis has the elevator ready and waiting for them.

Has he ever mentioned how awesome his AI is? Because he's pretty awesome.

He made sure to grab the backpack as he got out of the car, so he has the bottles to figure out what the hell Loki's gotten himself into this time—the god seems to have a habit of doing extraordinarily stupid things in a really complicated, convoluted way. Damn the idiot to hell. This actually has Tony scared, and he doesn't scare easy.

Because is it just him, or is Loki's breathing getting weaker?

* * *

_**Author's Note: **Sorry, not sorry._

_Currently, the #7 fleet is comprised of R62A's, but the Metropolitan Transportation Authority has planned for their replacement with new automated R188's in the next year or so. Given the amount of time that's passed since the Battle of New York, the R188's would have been recent upgrades from the old models._


	10. Fear

While Happy gets Loki upstairs, Tony takes off toward Bruce's lab. The guy's got all sorts of crazy shit lying around and if he's really lucky…

For a guy as picky as Bruce can get, his cabinets are in an absolutely ridiculous state of disarray. How does the guy find anything in here? Granted, his own workshop is in a constant state of organized chaos, so he probably shouldn't talk… Searching through everything is going to take forever, and they don't have forever, so he asks Jarvis if he knows where things are. To be honest, the if isn't really necessary. Of course Jarvis knows where they are.

Arms full, Tony sprints back upstairs and into his bedroom, where Happy's arranged the god in recovery position.

"Thanks, buddy."

"Anything I can do?"

"Initiate lockdown for this floor. I don't want anyone getting in without my say-so; your job is to make sure they don't. Got it?"

Happy nods and leaves, and a minute later he hears the lockdown procedures kick into gear. Right. Time to get to work.

He's not really a medical professional (at all), so there's some things he's just going to have to count on Loki's body to do itself. Add to that the fact that if he's anything like Thor then the guy's metabolism is absolutely ridiculous, so normal dosages are pointless.

How the hell does he get into these sort of situations? He really needs to reevaluate his life, at this rate.

Okay. Awesome. Plan time.

He sets up an oxygen mask to help his breathing, because it's really the best he can do at this point. All things considered, Loki's crazier than Brittany Spears and probably more likely to eat him than Hannibal Lecter, so he should probably restrain him. He doesn't have adamantium heated right now, though, and anything else will just spook the god and get Tony killed once he escapes. The suit's always an option, but last time Loki saw that he was being shipped off to Asgard for a really fucked-up trial or whatever happened. Dealing with a frightened Asgardian isn't something he has on his to-do list.

They'll just have to take it slow, then. Thankfully—although for what reasons he's got no idea, and it's probably best that way—Bruce had a store of Naloxone in his lab. Gods only know what he would have done otherwise, besides call Fury. With a rough estimation of a dose based on how much it took to get Thor drunk (it was for science, of course, definitely not because he was bored), he injects a bit and sits back to wait. Nothing noticeable changes and he has to remind himself to stay calm. He had gone with what should definitely be a safe dose, so there's room to titrate up and hope he can get a response.

Granted, there's the slight problem that there were two things Loki could have OD'ed on, but he's assuming it was both together. Better safe than sorry, right? If he can't get him at least semi-conscious with the Naloxone, though, he's going to have to call someone. This is a tech building, not a hospital or Oscorp—the sort of respirators they have are the kind to keep people from getting cancer, not to assist breathing, and he's pretty sure there aren't dialysis machines sitting around. He can probably rig up a makeshift IV if he has to, but it won't be pretty.

The next twelve minutes he spends in anxiety while he increases the dose of Naloxone a little at a time. Around the third injection the god's breathing starts to even out a bit, which is reassuring, because he's got better chance of dealing with a morphine overdose than an eszopiclone one. A couple minutes after the sixth, there's a loud thud as Tony jumps back and knocks his chair over, because _holy shit the guy can kick._

Loki tries to sit, but only manages to get about an inch off the pillow before that plan fails miserably. The trembling, which had mostly slowed to a stop, starts again with a vengeance and he wheezes painfully. It's not hard to tell when the god starts to panic, although his movements are made sluggish by what must be the sleeping meds. His breaths, while still shallower than normal, quicken to an alarming rate. Tony tries to get closer to calm him, but as soon as he starts to speak he's met with a terrifying amount of aggression. Right. Just gonna wait this out, then.

It's hard to say which scares him more—the part where Loki was dying, or the part now where he decides to live. Within a few minutes the god transforms from practically comatose to a wounded, cornered animal. An animal with really, really sharp cla– Where the hell did that knife come from?

The only reason he manages to duck in time is because the god's reactions are slowed—when he turns to look, the dagger is buried hilt-deep into the wall behind him.

Well shit.

"Loki. Loki, chill out man, it's me. Well, I'm not sure if that helps or not, actually, but I'm not planning on hurting you. Calm down and just try to breathe, because you haven't been doing much of it in the past hour or so."

The god claws at the oxygen mask, tearing it off and crushing it in his grip, and in doing so loses the extra support to his lungs. It leaves him gasping even worse than before, but apparently isn't enough to keep him from lashing out again.

Back in the tunnel, Loki must not have been doing much talking. That might be a good thing, since extended conversations with himself would be a whole new level of crazy, but it means that when he tries to speak now it doesn't do much good—his voice is little more than a rasping croak. Shaking hands claw at the sheets with a death-grip as he moans.

"d-drepa-" he manages before retching. The god shudders and pulls his knees up further. Tightening his hold, he tries again. "komast burt frá mér!" It's a strangled, forced sound, but more than he'd said before. Not that it helps Tony much, since he can't understand a word of it.

"Uh, Jarvis? You happen to know Asgardian?"

"Considering that there is no known record of such a language on Earth, I do not."

Dammit. Of course not.

"But I _am_ able to translate Icelandic."

The voice only serves to startle the god further, who snarls.

"Does that help us?"

"I would not have mentioned it if it did not."

Tony sighs. "Then mind skipping the condescending talk and just telling me what he's saying?"

"d-deyja-…" The Asgardian's speech is slurred, and followed by a pained moan.

"I believe he's making threats to kill you, sir."

Oh.

Yeah.

It's Loki.

He rubs the bridge of his nose, sighs, and looks back at the god shivering on his bed.

"Fantastic."

Loki hardly looks in a state to kill anyone, but the knife in his wall says otherwise. The longer they wait, though, the worse the poisoning's going to get if he OD'ed on the sleeping meds too. So… risk his own life, or find out the hard way if the god's done something remarkably stupid?

Judging from how he's acting, the chances of said stupidity are pretty high. Damn him to hell.

Tearing open a package of activated charcoal, he grabs a glass of water from the bathroom and mixes the powder in. When he gets back, the god's exactly how he left him.

"Loki…" he says quietly, trying to keep from spooking him again. He's still having trouble breathing, which isn't a good sign. Tony sets the glass on the nightstand. God, what do people say to sick people? Bedside manner has never really been a talent of his. At all.

"Hey, man, you look like shit."

Okay, maybe that wasn't fantastic, but he's trying. He's not the sort to say 'it's going to be alright' when it's not a guarantee, because people like that piss him off. Lies aren't exactly comforting.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Loki," he speaks as soothingly as possible, remembering how Pepper had after he'd woken up from surgery, "I'm trying to help." Gingerly he reaches out, ready to jump back if the god lashes out again, and rests a hand on his arm.

Loki flinches, his breath catching in his throat, but thankfully doesn't try to kill him. Score. Tony rubs his arm gently in an attempt to calm him down.

"Think you can sit up for a minute? I need you to drink this, it'll help."

That earns him a confused look. "h-hvað…?"

"Sitting. Up. The thing you do when you drink so you don't spill black stuff over my pretty white sheets."

The god looks up at him blankly.

Really?

"hv- hvers vegna ert þú…"

A pause, and the silence in the room is practically tangible. What happened to Shakespeare? Awkward.

Loki gasps and moans again, reminding Tony of the urgency of the situation, and he sighs. Fine, screw everything. Nobody's dying today.

Somehow his shoelaces have gotten tangled, and he fights with them a few moments before giving up and just pulling his sneakers off without untying them. He can deal with the problem later. Normally, he'd try to find something not covered in dust and dirt before sitting on his bed, but it's already too late considering the fact that the god's spent months in a subway tunnel and the sheets are already a lost cause. One benefit of having a huge bed (among others which aren't currently relevant) is that there's enough room for him to comfortably sit beside the god on his other side, so he carries the glass to the opposite nightstand and climbs in next to him.

"Alright, Blitzen, you listening? I need to get this in you before that shit shuts you down permanently. C'mon, up you go."

Loki remains a silhouette against the bed, curled in on himself from pain, for defense, or both. Tony sighs and tries to indicate that he wants him to sit. To the god's credit, he does seem to try, but for all the strength in his attacks he's still remarkably weak. When it becomes clear that Loki isn't going to be able to manage himself, he helps, and finds him surprisingly cooperative considering his behavior a few minutes ago. A minute or two of struggling sees the pair of them sitting against the headboard, the god leaning on his shoulder for support, and Tony with the glass in one hand attempting to convince the god to drink. Naturally, the stubbornness has reared its head again.

It doesn't make sense at first—he's gotta be thirsty as hell judging from how hard it is for him to talk—but then it clicks.

Asgard. It might be a world of honor and battle, but the way that Thor always inspects his glass before drinking from it suggests that it might not be the case for everyone. Going head-to-head with the god of thunder is pretty much a death wish… but slipping something into his drink could be a quite effective to off the prince.

"It's not poisoned, Loki…" How can he prove that, though, when he can't show by example and drink some himself? There's no good way to get the point across that doesn't require Loki seeing him, or at least speaking basic English.

Just for the record, isn't it a little ironic that he's concerned about poison when he's already poisoned himself? Stupid aliens and their stupid thoughts.

"Jarvis?" Tony pulls out his phone and enters the password. "Can you show me how to say 'Trust me, I'm a friend, I'm trying to help?'" Glowing text flashes across his screen, and he stares.

"What the hell is that? That's not even a letter!" Well, it's worth a try, right? With a very confused look on his face, he attempts, "Traystu mer, egg er viner. Egg er ad rayna ad hujalpa."

Okay, that sounded nothing like the fancy, fluid language Loki had spoken to him back in the café. So much for that plan.

The god's eyes flick up, though, a heartrending expression crossing his features that Tony can't quite decipher. "s-særir…"

Loki's hand is shaking when he takes it in his own, so Tony keeps a hold of the glass along with him while he drinks. The Asgardian barely bats an eye at what he's pretty sure is an awful taste, although a moment later he cries out and would have fallen back onto the mattress were it not for the fact that Tony catches him. The glass looks like it's going to be stained black for the rest of eternity, but thankfully only a little bit went over the side. It'll leave a ring on the nightstand.

He wraps an arm around the god to help support him through the tremors, and Loki has the exact opposite response he did earlier—instead of flinching away, he presses closer into the contact and lets out a pained noise.

"Loki?"

"þurfa lyf, særir það…" the god whimpers, "vinsamlegast gefa mér lyf?"

"Sorry?"

Jarvis finally decides to pipe up and translate, his voice far calmer than either of the men's. "He is asking for medicine, sir."

"I think there's acetaminophen in the medicine cabinet. That doesn't interfere, does it? I don't think so, but I can't remember."

Loki clutches his shirt and looks up desperately. "vinsamlegast, láttu mig hafa lyfið mitt, ég vil sársaukann til að fara í burtu."

"I don't think that's the sort of medicine he's seeking," Jarvis informs him.

"You mean…" Tony's heart sinks. "Fuck. Loki, what the hell have you gotten yourself into?"

*'*'*

_soft, comfortable… soft…_

_no. nonononono, notcold not safe, changed? scFIGHTared, bad, PAIN! danger danger tired danger, no–!_

_moved? tired… different, loud noise- loud, loud, loudrun run! move, fight, run can't– air, needaircan't–_

_voi–? voice! person, danger, not safe, movemovemove fi-PAIN-ght! metal, dagger– scared, fight fight FIGHT!_

_noise, loud– loud voice, not safe, getoffface– a-air, need air, b-breathe, air– fight fight killkillk-PAIN-ill–! sleep…_

_nononoFIGHTscared–! PAIN PAIN scared–water? Water–! thirstywaterthirstythirs–voice scared PAIN scared tired–_

_tired, scared– water? water… thirsty– voiPAINce? ScaredscaredSCARED-!_

_hide run hide PAIN medicine? tired…_

_scared, voice? cold– sound person voice? confusedCONFUSED scared–_

_PAIN_

_perso– person? voice noise medicine person PERSON voice? PERSON MOVE water! waterthirsty water POISON POISON SCARED thirsty…_

_voice… voice? scare- VOICETALKWORDSWORDSWORDS safe voice water voic– WATER! notwater, not water? thirsPAINty NOTWATER safe voice notwatPAINer PAIN PAIN SCARED PAIN–!_

_PAIN PAIN PA– person safe SAFE PERSON SAFE SAFE safe pain scared SAFEvoice…_

_name?_

_PAINPAIN voiPAINce medicine PAIN PAIN PAIN medicinemedicinemediPAINcine– scaredsafescared voice badvoice scared PAIN–…_

_voice voice tired PAIN medicine voice pain…_

*'*'*

Tony smoothes back the god's sweat-soaked hair, tucking a stray lock back behind his ear. It hurts to see him like this—so broken and defeated. So _scared._ He's nothing like the terrifying, feral creature that walked through their world in total confidence, not anymore.

Loki keeps the charcoal down for ten minutes at most, and after that it becomes an uphill battle to keep him hydrated and pull what poison's left from his system. It's becoming more and more clear that he overdosed on both the morphine and the sleeping meds, and between the two he's absolutely miserable. Tony ends up finding a pitcher of water to keep on the nightstand so he doesn't have to get up too much, and after a long and arduous one-sided argument manages to convince the Asgardian to take a few ibuprofen in hopes that it will help at least take a bit of the edge off. The unsteadiness and dizziness from the eszopiclone mean that Loki quickly gives up on sitting upright and instead curls up with his head in Tony's lap.

That bit's a little unexpected—once the god seems to accept that he's not a threat, he's suddenly clingy as hell—but once he settles he doesn't act quite as panicked. There still seems to be a language barrier, which is weird, and serves to remind him that Loki really isn't human. Even if Jarvis can interpret most of it from Icelandic and what knowledge remains of Old Norse, it's still not perfect and a lot more difficult than speaking to him directly. It makes him kind of sad, too, after having begun to enjoy hanging out and laughing at people. Fury will so kill him if he ever hears about that. Tony's still not entirely sure how S.H.I.E.L.D.'s doing on that front, or what they'd do with the god if they _did_ manage to get their sticky government fingers on him… the guy's still pretty pissed about Coulson, as in murderous–rage pissed, so it can't be anything fun. Probably nothing compared to Asgard's shit, though. Loki hasn't said much about it, but from what he can see it was pretty fucked up.

Even knowing that Loki can't understand him, he still talks to him—partially to fill the silence, and partially because when he does, Loki relaxes a little. The god stares out into space, thinking god knows what, and he watches Loki wondering how the hell they both got here.

"Hey, Jarvis, put on some music, will you?" He looks down at the man shivering in his lap. "Something classical. With violins."

Pachelbel's Canon in D Major starts to play quietly (in full surround sound, because his room obviously comes with the whole deal), and when the latest bout of retching has subsided Loki tilts his head to look up towards him.

"takk," he whispers with a pained expression, his voice still too unused to make speech comfortable.

"Jarv?"

His AI speaks just loud enough to be heard over the music. "He says thank you, sir."

Tony nods. "No problem."

Not much time passes before the god is heaving again, eyes closed and clawing at the sheets. It's been long enough since the last time he drank that there's nothing to throw up, but it still looks painful. He wishes he had something to tie the Asgardian's hair back with—it's grown quite a bit in the past few months and is more than a little unruly—but it's not something he usually carries and he doesn't want to get up for a little while. It'll be easier to get everything he wants at once, when he figures out what that is.

It's pretty clear by now that whatever happened, this isn't the first time that Loki's taken either of the drugs. This is just the beginning of withdrawal, and it's going to get a hell of a lot worse before it gets better. The first part, when he'd found him after the overdose (and it was only some really incredible luck that had gotten him there in time), he's done before. He's kept people stable until they could get to the hospital. This bit, though? Being here though the detox? That's a new one, and it's horrible to watch. The stories he's heard don't do it justice.

"viltu l-láta mig taka lyf? ég a-all-llt í lagi, þ-þá ..."

Once again, the god is begging for another dose to dull the pain, and it's just as well that he'd reached the end of the bottles. Even if he manages to get up, there's nothing left to take. Tony sure as hell can't go through this twice, and he can't even imagine being Loki right now.

The scariest part is that if things had gone a little differently—if Obadiah hadn't tried to kill him and he hadn't spent three months in a cave inching toward death—he could be Loki right now. Except, if that hadn't happened, he wouldn't have started dating Pepper. He wouldn't have gotten any closer to Rhodey, he never would have met Bruce, and he wouldn't have become part of the Avengers. He wouldn't have ever known Loki as more than some crazy guy who destroyed the city.

And even if he managed to quit before he OD'ed, he'd be doing this alone.

Fuck.

It's hard to say which would be worse—the cave or the detox—but if these are just the early stages then he's going to have to say the detox. At least good things came out of Afghanistan with him.

He might not be the best at bedside manner or making good decisions, but as far as he knows, he's the only guy Loki really has for shit like this.

Responsibility is not his strong suit. This will definitely be interesting, to say the least.

The god's symptoms slowly worsen, and he decides that it's worth getting up this time. Loki whines at the loss of contact, but otherwise doesn't bother moving. In the meantime, Tony collects a couple snacks in case he can keep something down, a jug of Gatorade, new clothes and sheets since he's sweating so badly, and a hair tie of Pepper's that he finds in the bathroom.

"Hey, buddy." It would be infinitely helpful if Loki would start speaking English again, but since that doesn't seem likely he makes due with a terribly-played one-man game of charades. He manages to get to a chair beside the bed (although the eszopiclone's still making him dizzy and unstable), and Tony hands him clothes to change into while he makes the bed. A few minutes later, Loki crawls back onto the bed and he returns with a cool towel to try and provide at least a little semblance of comfort for him.

"Jarvis, can you find an Icelandic movie to listen to? A comedy or something."

The AI offers a few options and he decides on something called _Sódóma Reykjavík,_ which apparently is about some kid trying to find the remote control so his mom can watch TV, which somehow escalates into a liquor smuggler vs. wannabe-mafia-boss showdown. It sounds absolutely ridiculous, and he's got no idea how high the writer must have been to come up with that, but hopefully it's funny to some extent and will help take Loki's mind off his current situation.

Judging from his reactions over the next hour and a half (which alternate between snickering and looking increasingly concerned for the human race), the movie is pretty hilarious and entirely nonsensical. With only the audio playing it's kind of hard to tell, but what matters is that the god isn't bored out of his mind. He, on the other hand, is finally convinced that Loki isn't going to just kick the bucket, and so pulls up holograms of the new StarkPhone design to poke around at. Somewhere around the halfway point Loki starts yawning as his body tries to increase his oxygen intake, which means Tony ends up yawning too. Damn god.

Not long after the movie stops, the god starts fidgeting—partially a compulsive part of the detox, and partially just playing with the sheets out of sheer boredom. Tony figured that would happen eventually, and he's kind of surprised it took this long. Thinking of something for him to do is kind of difficult, since his default responses are all dependent on visuals, but he gets an idea and starts digging through the draws of the nightstand (which is met with much irritated protest as the god's pillow disappears). He comes back with a Rubik's cube and a tube of superglue.

"Right, so this is probably going to be ten times harder than if you could see, but that's probably a good thing if the Lunesta's wearing off." He marks the squares on each side with different symbols so that Loki can feel the difference, lets him get a feel for it, then takes it again, scrambling it in as complicated a manner as he knows how, and hands it back to the god. It doesn't take him long to figure out the point, and the twitching in his hands that Tony's noticed on and off every since they met seems to have stopped for the time being.

The puzzle takes a bit longer than expected to be solved, which he puts down to the effects of the sleeping pills. They seem to be wearing off, but the god's still a little more out of it than he would be if it was just morphine withdrawal. When he finishes, Loki sits up, throws the cube at him, and stretches. To be honest, it's surprising that he hasn't gotten sore already—Tony's legs fell asleep ages ago and his back is killing him. He uses the opportunity to stand up and pace a little, trying to ease the ache.

Loki stares in his direction intently, and it makes his skin crawl.

"ég er orðin leið þig."

Jarvis translates, sounding a little more amused that he really should be. "He says he loathes you, sir."

"Really? After I've been your pillow for– Jarvis, what time is it?"

"A little after midnight. Would you like me to display a clock?"

"Ah… no, probably not. I'll just watch it and think time's crawling along like Pepper's nephew. Anyway, Loki, after I've been your pillow for seven hours? That is a _really_ long time. Especially for us little mortals. I'm hurt."

The god just glares. Tony rolls his eyes and goes on a hunt for something he'll snack on—the saltines had been turned away instantly and the rice he'd made (after overcooking it and having to try again) he'd only eaten a few reluctant bites of. Seriously, he's ridiculously picky.

Don't even ask about his reaction to gatorade.

Remembering their trip to the store, he starts checking ingredients, and just… wow. What the hell is this stuff, anyway? Considering how he eats when he's in the workshop, it's probably better for him than engine grease and antifreeze. Trying to find food for Loki, though, is a nightmare. Everything's got some sort of enriched something or other, which is the only thing in the bread that he could have found issue with earlier. In the end Tony manages to collect applesauce, yogurt, and a couple bananas. Bruce might have something downstairs, but he can find it later.

Turns out the Asgardian was actually pretty hungry, because once he finds something he'll eat it's all Tony can do to keep him from inhaling it.

"meira."

"What?"

Loki scowls and points toward the empty containers. "mat. fá mér meira."

"He wants more food."

"Thanks, Jarv. I don't have any more, though, Loki. Unless you want rice, which you didn't seem to before."

Obviously understanding the lack of food, if not the words themselves, the god glares. It's made slightly less effective by how often he's yawning and the fact that he looks absolutely awful, but still a little scary. With a sigh, Tony goes back out to find something else for him. All that's left is some tea that Pepper bought, but he supposes it's better than nothing. He can make it without destroying anything, too. That's always a bonus.

He returns to find a distinct lack of chaos god. Dammit all. Setting the tea on the nightstand he goes looking, and finds him in the bathroom feeling through the medicine cabinet. It's Tony's turn to glare, and he turns it up to maximum, wishing yet again that the god could see.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing? You took a couple bottles' worth of pills already, and you see where it's gotten you. Out. _Now."_ He points back toward the bed for his own benefit, and Loki stalks back to it with a huff. Apparently the sleeping meds really _are_ wearing off, and now the god's decided to be irritating as hell. If they were in the other's position, though, Tony probably would too. Still, he chucks a box of tissues at the god a little harder than normal. It's hardly going to hurt him, but hopefully the message gets through.

He climbs back onto the bed, where Loki's sitting with his back turned and arms crossed.

"I swear to god, if you start throwing a tantrum I'll throw you out the window."

Apparently he's not listening, so Tony whacks him in the head with the towel.

"Don't think that just because you're sick that I won't do it."

"láta mig í friði. ég hata þig."

"Leave me alone, I hate you," Jarvis translates.

Really?

"Okay, yeah, tantrum. How old are you, six?"

Loki pulls his knees up to his chest, hugging them and ignoring him.

"fara í burtu."

"Did you just insult me? That sounded like an insult."

"He said 'go away.' I'm not sure that quite qualifies as an insult, sir."

"Do I look like I speak crazy god? Last time I looked in the mirror, I don't think I did."

Said crazy god just curls in on himself more, and Tony sighs. "Loki…"

"ég finn eins og skít. bara láta mig í friði eða ég skera hendurnar af."

Hey, that's the most the guy's said all night. That's a good sign, isn't it?"

"He says that he feels like shit and if you don't leave him alone he'll cut your hands off."

Oh. Okay. Mixed sign, then. Good that he's acting a little more like himself, and a little scary considering the guy keeps knives up his sleeves. On the plus side, he got Jarvis to swear, which is a lot funnier than it should be. Tony's definitely been in this room too long.

Loki pulls a few of the blankets from the bottom of the bed and curls up underneath them so he's completely out of sight.

Holy shit, the guy's such a kid. And a petulant one at that.

Tony decides to pull up the holograms again before he gets bored enough to do something really stupid that will get him killed by the moody, restless, runny-nosed god.

"Buck it up, Rudolph. I know you're able to. And I swear to whoever matters that if you give up then I'll drag you back from hell to kill you myself. Got it?"

"þegja," comes the muffled voice.

Jarvis pipes up again to let him know the god says to shut up.

He's impossible.

"Loki, stop being an asshole."

No response besides the shivering. After a little while, the silence gets uncomfortable again.

"Come on, I made you tea and everything. Unless you want coffee, because Jarvis makes a mean espresso, but that probably won't be good on your stomach."

The blanket pile shifts slightly. "te og kaffi…?" it asks.

Oh, hey, something that sort of translates! "Well, tea right now, although it's going to get cold at this rate."

Loki sits up, and the blankets and attitude suddenly make a lot more sense when he catches the god wiping away tears. Right… shit's getting worse. He acts like nothing's happened, though, so Tony does the same and nudges his hand with the mug of tea. The god takes it gratefully.

"Takk."

Wait, is he thanking him again? This must be some sort of record or something.

Wrapped up in his cocoon of blankets, Loki sips at the drink with a sigh of relief. Tea is good. Saving that memo for later.

Toward the end he winces, and feels around for a place to put the mug on the nightstand; Tony takes it and sets it down for him. Loki fidgets, unable to get comfortable, then throws the blankets off and sprawls out on the other side of the bed.

"You good?"

The god just shivers and turns over, curling in on himself. After a few minutes, he whispers brokenly, "h-hvers vegna ert þú að gera þetta t-til mín? hvers v-vegna ertu að meiða m-mig?"

"He says–"

Tony sighs. "Can you just send shit to my phone? It'll be ten times easier than having you repeat everything…"

Jarvis agrees, and a written translation appear on his phone screen.

He sort of wishes it hadn't.

_Why are you doing this to me? Why are you hurting me?_

Is that really what the god thinks is happening? Not completely, considering how he's been acting, but come to think of it—does this sort of thing happen on Asgard? Do people go through withdrawals? Obviously it's possible, since here they are, but that doesn't mean the other planet has drugs that would cause them.

If not, then this must be terrifying for Loki.

"I'm trying to help you, Rudolph. I know it feels like shit now, but you'll thank me later." Seriously, though, what happened to the schmancy English? He could ask Jarvis to translate for him, but every time the computer pipes up Loki flinches away. It's weird, but he doesn't think too much on it since it's not really important right now. What's important is getting the guy through this in as few pieces as possible.

Has he suddenly taken on responsibilities other than shooting repulsor beams at bad guys? Why yes, yes he has. It's a bit out of his usual character, but the whole overdose thing has freaked him out a little.

Okay, maybe a lot.

Loki stands on shaky legs and starts pacing the area he's learned is clear, eyes shut and breathing obviously controlled.

He watches him for a moment, getting concerned. "…Loki?"

The god's head snaps up. "ís."

White letters appear on his screen.

_Ice._

"Wait, what?"

"í huga mín-mínum, ísinn er að fá upp í h-huga minn–" He cringes and a whimper slips through his carefully crafted façade.

_In my mind. The ice is getting into my mind._

Chaos god say what, now?

_"t-takk,_ bara fá m-mér meira verkjalyf. Þú ert að d-drepa mig, ég þarf þa-það til að hætta…"

_**Please,**__ just give me more painkillers. You're killing me, I need it to stop…_

Tony sighs. "No, Loki."

The god pales noticeably, and flinches back from the words. Does he even want to know? Probably not, actually, now that he thinks about it.

A few minutes later, Loki crawls back onto the bed in exhaustion. Tony finds a new towel and helps wipe the sweat off his brow, and the god closes his eyes for a minute before looking back toward him (well, over his shoulder, he tends to miss a bit) desperately.

"v-vinsamlegast…"

_Please…_

God, this is painful.

He turns to kneel behind the god, pulling his hair up into a ponytail like Pepper taught (or tried to teach) him. It takes a few tries, but he manages something vaguely resembling one. Hey, it keeps the hair out of his face, so it works. Deciding to take advantage of the time while Loki's _not_ trying to kill or maim him, he rubs his shoulders (another thing Pepper taught him—has he mentioned she's awesome?). The god immediately tenses, a shudder wracking his body, but he leans back into it after a moment.

"er allt mannkyn svo sorglegt og veikburða?"

Tony glances down at his phone and can't help but laugh.

_Is all of humankind so pathetically weak?_

He hits the god's shoulder jokingly. "Asshole." After that he does stop being so gentle, though, remembering the difference in their strength. "For pete's sake, Loki, relax a bit! I didn't even know it was _possible_ to be this tense. I'd make a joke about a string, but since you wouldn't understand it, it won't be funny."

Slowly—_very_ slowly—the god does start to relax. Definitely not completely, but he goes from breaking-the-laws-of-physics tense to just holy-shit-man-I'm-concerned-for-your-health tense. At least it's some sort of improvement. What surprises him, though, is that Loki becomes noticeably less wary of his every move. So, tea and massages? No, it's tea, massages, classical music, and weird-ass Icelandic comedies. Who'da thunk? Apparently he also likes truffles, too, since he stole one of his back in the coffee shop… unless it was just to spite him. Which is completely possible.

He's anxious, though, and has been for hours—more so now that the drowsiness is starting to wear off. As it does, all the more psychological symptoms are starting to show as his awareness increases. Little things start to frustrate him more, especially how his body is reacting to the sudden lack of morphine, and he jumps at things Tony barely even notice—the heat switching on, an ambulance siren in the distance, a bag of crackers rustling slightly when the bed shifts. It's driving him crazy, and Tony knows it. Sometimes the god will stare out into space and tear up, and others he'll zone out completely. Right now Loki's curled up at the end of the bed, shivering again, and cocooned in blankets.

He whispers something softly, but Jarvis picks it up and sends it wordlessly to Tony's phone.

_I'm scared…_

* * *

_**Author's Note:** Have a little fluff before I break your heart again. Well, not entirely fluff, but it's fluffier than next chapter. Sorry in advance._

_Well, not really that sorry; I promise the pain will be worth it._

_"Remote Control" ("Sódóma Reykjavík") is actually a real, honest to god movie. That is the actual premise. Not even I can come up with stuff that crazy._  
_imdb{{DOT}}com/title/tt0108176/_


	11. Panic

Everything hurts. _Everything._ His arm aches, his back is sore, he can't stay still for the life of him, and it's _cold._ Can't he just go back to the tunnel? It was quiet, safe… Now there's another person, and not enough air, and a voice that he can't quite place but is wrong somehow and everything's so loud.

Where is he? It's not home, home is comfortable and smells like the incense he burns as an offering. This is soft, too soft—he sinks down into the… bed? It feels like a bed, and there are blankets. If something happens he can't run as quickly, there's no good leverage.. Home is safe. The tunnel was safe. Here is _not safe._ Here is bad for escaping.

_Run, run, run, hide._

The man doesn't speak Asgardian, is… mortal? Familiar. Not dangerous, but not safe either. Everything hurts, and here is _not safe._

_Hurt. Run, hide._

But nowhere's safe. Wait, no, why would he think that, when he has an apartment and a tunnel– nonono, not safe. Something about them isn't safe.

He's so, so tired, but can't sleep. Needs to move, move, run, move. Everything hurts, make it stop…

*'*'*

At some point in the night he must have fallen asleep, because he wakes to the god sweating heavily and crying.

"Loki?"

Fuck, this is a lot worse than last night. The guy's got an insane amount of control and kept it relatively together yesterday, but it's the full-out sobs that give away just how bad he's doing.

"m-maga sárt. illa." he says, clenching his teeth in an attempt to suppress the tears now that Tony had awoken. He's sitting crosslegged, head down and arms wrapped around his stomach, trying to keep from rocking back and forth. It's not really working. Looking desperately towards where Tony sits, he asks brokenly, "hvers vegna er það meiða svo mikið? ég skil ekki–…"

_Why does it hurt so much? I don't understand–…_

Wait, so he really doesn't have any idea of what's going on? If only the god could read… he'll have to work on some sort of screen that can shift braille like it would printed words. It could use small, localized tactile feedback, maybe? He adds the project to the top of his mental to-do list. Then again, if the god isn't able to translate English, how the hell would he manage braille?

Tony bites his lip, trying to figure out how to respond to that. In the end, he reverses the translator on his phone and does his best to read it out.

"Treystu mér, lagi?"

_Trust me…_

Loki looks up at him, eyes red from crying, and bites his lip. A moment sits between them, something that feels like an eternity as he processes the clumsy words. In the end, he nods and lets out another sob. "hrædd."

_Scared._

"I know, Loki. I know…"

The god's too restless to sit still, and keeps alternating between clenching and flexing his hands. It's not difficult to tell how hard he's fighting to keep the panic controlled.

"kalt, svo kalt…" He speaks quietly, as though saying it aloud is forbidden.

_Cold, so cold…_

Tony stands, and when the god feels the bed shift a look of terror crosses his face. As though he was just going to walk away and never come back. Seriously, just– what the fuck even happened back on Asgard? Fighting bad guys, that's easy. You point, shoot, and try not to get killed. Forcing a god off opiates cold turkey? Now that's scary. And he's not just saying that—he really is concerned about how to help him now, and how much worse this is going to get down the road. In the meantime, there are more blankets in his closet, alongside warmer (and cleaner) pyjamas and fuzzy socks. Yes, he has fuzzy socks. They're comfy.

When he returns, Loki gives an audible sigh of relief and takes the clothes gratefully. Tony rubs the god's arm and speaks in what he hopes is a reassuring voice.

"I'm going to go see if I can find a hot pack or something, and get you a cup of tea. Alright? I'll be right back, I promise."

Loki stares after him sadly, and he must be going soft or something because it makes it hard to leave. It's for the best that he does, though, so he tries to quickly get together anything he can find that might help the god feel better. He figures it's been long enough that a few tylenol probably won't hurt, so he grabs a few of those too, and sits next to Loki again. The whole hot pack idea must be new with how confused he is by it, but when the Asgardian figures it out he looks a lot, well, not happier, but less uncomfortable. The tea cheers him up a bit too, but he's still restless and the anxiety lurks just out of sight, as though it's hiding in the corner of his eye. While Loki's busy with the hot drink, Tony busies himself wrapping the extra blankets around him. When he's done, the god looks like a burrito, and if it weren't for the fact that Loki would probably take it wrong, he would have burst into laughter at the picture.

Then again, there's also the part where the god's essentially going through the worst flu ever and having a really hard time controlling the tears.

Once he's finished the tea, Tony quickly takes the mug from him so it doesn't accidentally turn into a Thor incident like Darcy had talked about that one time she came to visit. The hand twitching is getting a lot more pronounced. He lies down again, but can't get comfortable and changes positions every couple minutes; his level of frustration increases exponentially.

"g-gera það að hætta, gera það að hætta!"

_Make it stop, make it stop!_

That's definitely fear in the god's voice now. Tony knows firsthand how it feels to be scared of his own body, but nothing like this. Not remotely.

Loki's kneeling again, a little more twitchy than before and a lot more restless. It's gotta be hell for him. Tony sighs—it's not really his thing, but he's noticed how the other responds to contact, and if it'll help then it's worth it. The bed dipping catches the god's attention, but not as much as when Tony wraps his arms around his shoulders. True to form, Loki tenses significantly, then slowly relaxes once he realizes there's not a threat. He's not crying as much anymore, but there are still tears, and he rests his forehead on Tony's shoulder.

It has even more of an impact than he'd expected. Loki's still restless, sure, but the anxiety is cut by a good amount and the twitching gets a little better. The god's breaths are shaky, and he clings to the front of Tony's shirt like a lifeline.

In his pocket, his phone vibrates. Loki, predictably, jumps at the sudden noise, but doesn't break away. Knowing that ignoring the call is useless and that the god will be able to hear even if he keeps the volume down, he tries to quiet him so he won't be noticed and then answers his phone on speaker. Call it an act of good faith, if you want.

"Hey, Pep. What's up?"

_"Just making sure you're still alive, since you haven't called in a few days."_

"Surprise, I am!" He rolls his eyes. "Believe it or not I can actually survive on my own, in case you've forgotten."

_"That doesn't mean I don't worry when you disappear into your workshop for weeks on end."_

"It was one time, Pepper. _One time._ I've done a lot worse, I know you know that by now."

_"You've got the suit I sent for the party tonight, right?"_

"I knew it! I knew you had some sort of ulterior moti– Wait, _tonight?_ I thought it wasn't until Christmas Eve!"

_"Tony,"_ she reprimands with just the tiniest hint of concern, "_it __**is**__ Christmas Eve."_

"Oh."

_"Oh? __**Oh?**__ We've been planning this for months, how can you just forget about it? There's real potential to work out a partnership with Axiom, and it's a pretty rare opportunity. You'd better be here an hour early at latest."_

He looks down at Loki, who's still crying silently against his shoulder. "I don't think I'm gonna make it tonight, Pep. Maybe next time."

_"Tony–! What on Earth makes you think it's okay to just bail on something like this? Stark Industries needs you to at least show up every once in a while!"_

"Pepper, chill. I'm kind of busy."

_"If you think you can skip out because you want to play around with that new vibranium shipment, you're gonna have another think coming."_

"I'm not in the workshop, for god's sake, give it a rest."

_"What are you so busy doing, then, that you've decided to shirk your duties as head of the company?"_

"Stop using fancy words. It doesn't matter, I'm just busy."

_"Tony,"_ she starts, in a tone too calm to be safe, _"are you with a girl?"_

"What? No! And why does it matter so much what I'm doing?" The god's getting more restless, and the conversation isn't helping his anxiety. Tony runs his fingers through the god's hair in an attempt to calm him down again.

_"Please, just tell me? Relationships don't work if you hide everything from each other."_

He sighs. She's not going to let up until she gets an answer (she's gearing up for the guilt trip, this isn't the first time she's pulled it), and is too good at knowing when he's lying.

Fine.

"Look, a friend of mine overdosed yesterday evening." Yeah, Loki's definitely getting twitchy again. "I pulled him off cold turkey, but the withdrawals are hellish and I'm not ditching him for some stupid party that I'm only going to make enemies at anyway. Will you please just get off my back about it?"

_"Wait, who is it, are they okay? It's not one of the Avengers, is it?"_

"You keep acting like I care what the hell they do. That's their business, and my friend's not one of them anyway. You don't know him, and no, he's not okay. Believe me, if he was, I would have stuck reindeer antlers on him by now like I've wanted to do for months now."

_"Alright, well… if you're telling the truth, then give him my regards."_

"Tell him yourself, he can hear you."

_"What?"_

Tony laughs quietly. "I said he can hear you. He's right here."

_"Oh, um, hi?"_

"Say hi," he tells the god with a nod toward the phone.

Loki sniffs, and when he speaks it's not hard to tell he's scowling. "ég g-geri ekki hlutina á stjórn eins og hund."

"Yeah… I probably don't want to know," he says, raising an eyebrow at the god he's kind of awkwardly half-hugging now. "He says hi, Pep."

"ég gjöri e-ekkert af því ta-tagi," Loki mumbles irritatedly against his shoulder.

_"Alright, well, I've got a plane to catch. I'll see you tonight."_

She hangs up.

Right, so, this is going to be interesting. Pretty sure she won't want to know just which friend it is, and that Loki won't want her to know either. Wonder how she'll react if he asks her to sleep in the spare room downstairs… there's probably a fifty/fifty shot between her being understanding and giving him the really irritated, scary, you-fucked-up-and-now-Pepper-is-mad talk.

Well, it's not like he's never heard it before.

"How are you holding up, Blitzen?"

Loki sits back, glaring (the tears make it kind of ineffectual, but it's the thought that counts), and flops back down onto the bed with his blankets.

"ég hata allt."

Now that the call's ended, his phone's flipped back to the translator.

_I hate everything._

"Don't you always?"

"ég hata þinn röddina, þögn."

_I hate your voice, silence._

Tony scoffs in mock offense. "Now that's just mean! How would you feel if I s–"

He doesn't get to finish his sentence because one moment the god is holding a pillow over his head, and the next is practically on top of him. It only takes a few seconds for Loki to figure out where his throat is, which he really should have seen coming from the way his teeth are bared, and snarls.

"ÉG. SAGÐI. ÞÓGN!"

His phone is too far away to get a translation, but it's pretty easy to tell that the god's pissed.

"Gone too far, I got it, backing down now… please don't kill me?"

"ÞÓGN!" The word is punctuated by Loki shaking him roughly. He does remember that Tony's just a mortal, right? Well, not _just_ (because come on, he's Tony Stark) but still mortal. Still capable of being killed by scary Asgardian strength.

He decides maybe it's better not to say anything.

Apparently, that's the correct response. Loki stares him down a minute (which is uncomfortable, because the scars are really pretty awful), then shoves him back onto the bed before curling up again.

*'*'*

Norns, what's happening to him? Everything feels hazy, like a bad dream, except too real at the same time. It's not right, his body shouldn't do this! His own flesh is wrong. Staying still for more than a few moments is physically painful, and even then he can't stop shivering because it's _cold._ There's ice in his chest and ice in his mind and ice in the air and ice in the– Why's his mind keep getting trapped in circles?

A shudder wracks his body, and he claws at the now-wrinkled sheets.

This side isn't comfortable to lie on anymore, and trying to ignore the growing need to move is impossible, so he turns over. Except, that side's no better. He switches back to how he was and wipes his forehead with his sleeve because he feels disgusting and sweaty and his nose is sore from the tissues and–…

No matter how hard he fights, he can't control the twitches that come and go as they please. It feels like he's dying of poison, except it won't just _let him die._ He's been poisoned before, felt it take hold and tear at his body, and he's felt his soul losing its grip on his body. This time, he's trapped in his flesh for all of it. _By all the valkyries, let him go!_

He bolts upright, heart pounding and anxiety clawing at his chest, at a sound off to his right. Belatedly he realizes that it was glass on wood—something being set down, probably a jar from the sound it—and not a threat. Arms shaking and head down, kneeling on the bed, he pants heavily as though he's been on a day-long chase through the northern forests after game too agile to hunt on horseback. Tears threaten to spill over and he resolutely holds them back. He's stronger than that. Loki, son of the abyss, does not cry for pain.

Instead, he shrieks in anger.

A couple backwards footsteps register—ah, that's right, that _mortal_ is here. Anger swells to burning rage in his chest, panic just fuelling the flame until it's a roaring blaze. Fire, you see, can just as easily warm the hearth as raze the house to the ground. Lips curl up to reveal a razor-sharp, feral grin as he stares in the man's direction. Even his eyes, useless as they are, echo the outright animosity that replaces the tears.

The god giggles and leaps at him, only to misjudge thanks to the Hel-hated bed. It's hardly a deterrent, though, because a couple thousand years have taught him how to duck and roll in order to recover from a misestimate. Perhaps it's better this way because blind or not, a human cannot even finish processing the need to turn before he has them incapacitated from behind. This man is no different.

If anything, it's easier, since the fool had underestimated him previously.

Grab his shoulders, kick his leg out from under him, catch with his own leg, use his arm for leverage to spin him face-down, and lock it behind him. It takes under a second to complete, even using minimal force, and is really only two movements—a drop and a turn. Child's play.

_"Deyja. Deyja, þú sjúkdómur-riðið, krap-borða, geit-pörun þræll."_

The mortal says something that sounds alarmed and struggles, which is fine. Nice, actually. The idiot would do well to fear him in his last moments.

*'*'*

He kind of knew it was coming… the calm before the storm had been a little too calm. Well, besides the part where he was freaking out about the overdose, which was anything but. The past, what, eighteen and a half hours and counting? They belong in a Lemony Snicket novel. The god seems to have five modes that may or may not overlap—clingy and crying, hiding, panicking, moaning in pain, and driving Tony crazy. Actually, the last applies to most of the other ones, because half are irritating and the rest are the other side of awful.

There are also the moments when Loki just breaks down and begs for morphine; those are probably the worst.

This, though… he's surprised it hasn't happened sooner. The god's a pail of caesium balanced on a knife edge over the ocean—just waiting for someone to tip it one way or the other—and you don't want to be anywhere nearby when it falls.

He's noticed the god becoming more aware as time passes. The sleeping meds really kicked his ass, but he's been edging back toward Loki as he knows him. Whether that's for better or worse, well… he'll have to wait and see.

That is, if he survives.

See, this is Loki as he was during the battle. He's feral, unhinged, and running off of some really terrifying instincts. That's really the problem, though, isn't it? When it comes down to it, Loki's having the same reactions that a wild animal would. Confused, in pain, and scared? That's a recipe for disaster.

A disaster that's currently scaring the everliving shit out of him. One moment he's bringing food for the god, and the next he's face-down on the carpet with his arm pulled painfully back, Loki snarling in his ear.

_"Deyja. Deyja, þú sjúkdómur-riðið, krap-borða, geit-pörun þræll."_

"Loki, chill the fuck out, I'm not going to hurt you!" He tries (and fails, which is kind of expected given the combination of the god's strength and adrenaline) to get away, but the more he struggles, the more his arm is twisted until it's all he can do not to scream.

He's back to battle-scared, and he doesn't like it at all. Believe it or not, he kind of likes being alive, y'know? Fun stuff. Life is appreciated.

Then again, he's kind of giving mixed signals—trying to calm the god down while trying to fight against him. Change of tactics? Couldn't hurt.

Tony lets himself relax, and stops struggling. Loki could kill him easily, but to be honest, he's not sure the god actually wants to. Fingers crossed he doesn't die.

That seems to seriously throw him, and he falters for a moment.

"It's okay, Loki," he says (relatively) calmly.

There's a sharp pain, and everything fades to black.

* * *

**_Author's Note:_ **_The move Loki uses on Stark is called a Rear Sentry Takedown: youtu{{DOT}}be/NuYZZwZnrvA_  
_And what he says to him immediately following is essentially,_  
_"Die. Die, you disease-ridden, slush-eating, goat-fucking slave."_

_Caesium is a chemical, metallic element that's liquid at room temperature and happens to be just slightly (ridiculously) reactive. Water, well, makes it go boom. There's also a radioactive isotope that's caused a few… problems, in the past._  
_en{{DOT}}wikipedia{{DOT}}org/wiki/Caesium_  
_en{{DOT}}wikipedia{{DOT}}org/wiki/Goi%C3%A2nia_accident_


	12. Terror

Had he been planning to injure the mortal? No.

Did he? Yes.

Does he regret it? No.

Anyone who thinks he's less dangerous because he's sick and injured is an incredible fool. Desperation is a fantastic motivator, as it turns out, and the ability to use it to turn himself into a living weapon is the reason he's survived as long as he has.

There isn't much time before the man comes after him, and the awful computer will reveal his location if he stays within the tower. He quickly finds where his backpack and cane are stashed under the bed, grabs a blanket from the floor where he must have kicked it off, and throws anything superfluous (pretty much everything) aside. Hiding here isn't an option. The doors are locked (unsurprisingly, considering what Midgard thinks of him), but it's a simple matter to break them open between a well-placed kick and the relative strength of gods.

It's a nightmare, navigating the steep, rough cement stairs, but after the first few levels it seems that each flight has the same number of steps—once he's learned that, there's less worry about where the next platform is and he can move a lot more quickly. At the bottom he finds the lobby, milling with employees, customers, and the are too many conversations and sounds to easily pick up on one alone while he passes through, not as his mind is functioning now. He knows the room by the few times he's visited in the past, making it easy to cross (and at one point back then he'd leaned against a fire pull by mistake, which hurt, but now becomes useful).

Suddenly there's chaos as bells shriek, and a businessman offers to help him outside. He graciously accepts.

Once he's escaped the building it's hard to actually run, especially since it's rush hour and the sidewalks are remarkably busy, and not to mention his unfamiliarity with the area. The important thing, though, is to avoid being caught, so he gets as far away from the tower as possible.

*'*'*

Tony wakes up incredibly confused and a little light-headed. His mind feels feels kind of funny. He decides to lie there a while because the carpet's nice and soft, so why move when it's so comfortable? What even happened? He'd run downstairs to find something the god would eat, and now he's on the floor… Weird.

How long has that smudge been on the ceiling? Who decided it would be alright to smudge his nice pretty ceiling? Not cool.

Wait, hadn't there been a very miserable norse god in here like five minutes ago? Where the hell is he– oh. Right. Said god had decided to go psycho when he set down the jar. Awesome.

And now he's vanished.

Dammit all.

He sits slowly, making sure his head's clear before getting up. There's only so far the god could have gone, right? Considering the, y'know, multiple impairments he's currently operating under.

The screeching ring of the fire alarm feels like it's stabbing him in the brain, repeatedly.

"For fuck's sake, Jarvis, turn that down! I have a headache!" It quiets to a slightly more bearable but equally irritating level. "Did that asshole do what I think he just did?"

"If by that you mean did he trigger the fire alarm, then yes, sir."

No. _Now_ damn it all.

And don't think for a second that he's missed the irony of the god using the exact same escape plan as he had back in the subway station.

Tony grabs a black wool coat and red scarf then takes off, quickly finding Loki's escape route (it's not exactly difficult, since the elevator wouldn't have worked without Jarvis' permission and the nearest door to the stairs is hanging at a weird angle with a suspicious dent by the latch) and then running back to the elevator since it's faster.

"He still in the building?"

"No, sir."

That complete and utter asshole.

"Ground floor, now. What direction did he go?"

Jarvis gives him the best instructions he can, which are that Loki headed west up 42nd and then disappeared into a gap in the security footage of the city. Now the AI is searching everywhere nearby and waiting for him to show up again—as it so happens, it's pretty hard to find blind spots when you yourself are blind. Sure enough, as he's running out the front door the god's appeared again a block or two north (then, naturally, is gone again). Tony tells Jarvis to keep him updated, then takes off at a run. He should be able to catch up if he can move quickly enough, since Loki's slowed by his blindness and probably won't make it far before the the symptoms kick in with a vengeance.

Why is he running after the crazy guy?

No idea.

Probably because Loki's been curled up in his lap crying on and off for the past twelve hours, getting increasingly panicky… He's said it before and he'll say it again—seeing the god of fire and lies brought so low is terrifying.

The god's disappeared again somewhere within a three-block radius, but past that Jarvis hasn't been able to track him. He's too fucking good at this, and it's not cool.

There's a ridiculous amount of snow on the ground, and not in the fun way. More in the freezing way, and there's slush in his shoes. Uggh. Now it's down to searching the old-fashioned way, and it sucks. There are any number of buildings he could have disappeared into, and while a lot of them are closed for the holiday, he can't necessarily rule them out considering, well, Loki. The god's a force of nature. Possibly even more so than Thor, which is saying something.

He stops in two convenience stores, an asian food grocer's, has Jarvis run on a scan on the department store and only checks the blind areas because that'd be impossible otherwise, then moves on to four restaurants, and a hobby shop. Where he actually finds the god, which shouldn't really be that surprising considering his talent for hiding in the places people don't tend to look, is when he's walking down a shadowed, dusty alleyway and catches movement out of the corner of his eye.

Loki's curled up with a patchwork quilt around him, staring out into space, and teeth clenched like he tends to do when he's fighting back tears.

He leans against the brick wall a little bit in front of the god (still kind of wary, he's not a _complete_ idiot), crossing his arms and his legs to brace himself against the cold wind.

"That was kind of rude, you know. Taking a guy out when he's bringing you food. Especially when he's been taking care of your sorry ass for the past day while you fail miserably at sitting still."

The god's eyes flick up toward his face (okay, that's good, at least he's still relatively aware of his surroundings), but that's as much a response as he gets.

"Jerk. I'd come up with one of your crazy, over-complicated insults except I'm kind of freezing my ass off out here. I vote we go inside. Like, now would be great." No such luck. Deciding yet again that safety is for losers, he sits down beside Loki. "Hey, shove over and stop hogging the blanket. If you're so determined to have a party under the fire escape then at least don't make me freeze to death and not even invite me."

Again, the god doesn't really respond, but he doesn't resist either when Tony tugs away one end of the blanket so he can fit too. "How the hell aren't you a popsicle by now?" No answer. That's alright, he can hold a conversation by himself. "You do realize this only strengthens my case that you're Rudolph. Wait, have you ever seen that movie? The stop motion version, not the other one. We're so watching it when we get back, you're missing out on the Christmas cheer. Okay, well, actually I guess we can just skip to the song since you're kind of missing out on ninety percent of a movie like that if you can't see it. Christmas songs! Once the worst of this is over, we're putting on Christmas songs, making hot chocolate, and wearing santa hats. Well, reindeer antlers in your case. I've got this awesome pair somewhere that light up. You guys don't have anything like Christmas back on Asgard, do you? Guessing not, at least not in the crazy way we do here. It's kind of a dumb holiday, but the food and music's sort'a fun. Plus it's always hilarious seeing what Pepper decides to get me, because it's inevitably something ridiculous, and if you'd have come back when I told you to you wouldn't be freaking out like this right now. Holy crap, chill. Ready to head to the tower? Please?"

*'*'*

He hadn't made it as far as he'd wanted to, because once the rush of adrenaline wore off the illness came back even worse than before. There was an alleyway a few feet away from where it had started again, so he'd ducked into it and found the best hiding spot he could in the darkness.

Now the mortal is prattling on about something in his own language and has taken part of his blanket, and all Loki wants to do is curl up somewhere warm with a book and his sight. Whatever is killing him is doing so at an agonizingly slow rate and he wishes it would just hurry up already so the pain would be over. Norns, just make it end… and kill the man, too, because his head is already currently attemptin to split in two. He's exhausted, and if he could he'd simply fall asleep here and now, but he needs to _move_ and his arm is sore. Abandoning the cocoon of warmth he'd managed to make so as to use the pent up energy and escape the man, Loki stumbles to his feet and wanders off down the alley, tracing the wall of the building to keep his bearings.

The mortal shouts something at him, and there's scuffling as he climbs to his feet. Loki ignores him until there's a sharp tug on his arm, at which point he almost kills the man on instinct.

"Slepptu mér!"

Just let _go_ of him. Let him go, in whichever way fits, or all of them if necessary. As long as it doesn't involve being trapped here, in the cold, in the darkness of his blindness, and in this traitorous body. It's too much, too _much,_ he was a prince! A king! A god!

A god?

More like a monster. Saved or stolen doesn't really matter anymore, but he'll see both 'fathers' killed if he can. And the Odinson, too, will die. He doesn't want to rule Asgard, just watch it fall and burn to pay back in kind what was done to him, What is _being_ done to him.

Everything should die.

_Everything._

Maybe when it does, the ice in his mind will stop and he'll finally be at peace.

If he doesn't kill, then he'll be killed; he knows full well how this all plays out. If they find him, if _He_ finds him, this will be nothing. If anything, this death will be pleasure in comparison.

Or, he'll be forgotten. Alone. He's already an outlaw on Asgard and may as well be here.

What if S.H.I.E.L.D finds him? He'll be hunted for sport, locked, up, muzzled, and _caged_ like the beast he is; he'll be sent back to the mocking gilded halls and marble floors; he'll be– they'll–

*'*'*

"Woah, Loki, breathe! Well, less than you are now, you know what I mean."

The god's panting, quickly approaching hyperventilating, and quite frankly he has no clue what caused it. His eyes are wide and the shaking isn't just from withdrawals anymore. Whatever it is, it's got him pretty freaked out, and is reminding Tony of the anxiety attacks he still gets when he thinks too hard about the past.

"C'mon, Loki, sit down. That's it…" This is going to be kind of hard without the god understanding what he's saying, but fuck it all if he's not going to try. He kneels in front of him (and right into a puddle—that's what he gets for helping), trying to keep his voice calm. Not his strong suit, at all, but he's had a day or so to practice and he can learn a lot in twenty-four hours. When they're both on the ground, he tilts Loki's head up—the whole blindness thing kind of hinders things too, but hopefully he gets the point.

"Look, man, I don't know what made you lose it, but right now you're not in any immediate danger. You need to breathe, and focus on what's happening here and now. Just try to breathe."

Understanding his words or not, the tone at least seems to help the god calm down slowly.

"There you go… see? Nothing here to be scared of, except maybe me talking your ear off, in which case just use a rubber band or something to put it back on."

"Þeir eru að fara að finna mig, þeir geta ekki fundið mig–…" he whispers in a terrified tone.

"It's alright, Loki, you're alright…"

The god pulls his knees up to his chest and rests his head on them. He's crying, Tony can hear the half-silenced sobs, and vaguely wonders how Loki will react once all this is over and the ridiculous mood-swings have subsided. Probably kill him in a really slow and painful way; he seems the type. In the meantime, though, Tony runs his fingers through the god's hair since it always seems to help calm him down.

That only lasts a minute or so before Loki's up and pacing, still breathing a little more quickly than he should be while his expression flits between anger, fear, and madness.

Okay, yeah, he's definitely unstable.

Please remind him how he'd forgotten about that?

Oh, right. He's an idiot. Too late now, he supposes.

"Dasher, here–" he hands the god his blanket back. Loki wraps it around his shoulders as though it will somehow protect him from the rest of the world, and stumbles.

Tony waits until the god's steadied himself before going to help him. This little incident has reminded him of the fact that Loki's not some kid with a scraped knee and a cold—he's a god who can and will destroy a city, country, or world with the right motivation—and coddling him is only going to piss him off. Not that there's been an exceptional amount of coddling by any means, because that's so not Tony's schtick.. But if he imagines them in opposite places (it's still slightly scary how easy that is to do), he knows full well that there's only so much he'd let someone do before he lost it.

The guy's still a wreck, though, and they end up taking a cab back to the tower.

Loki grumbles in Asgardian all the way there and Tony's okay with not knowing what he's saying. It's probably not anything pleasant, all things considered, so the god's more than welcome to keep it to himself.

Once they're in the penthouse, Loki pushes him aside, determined to make his way himself. As long as the god doesn't decide to bolt again he's fine with that, because quite frankly he's hungry; all this taking care of the weird-ass Asgardian crap hasn't left much time for food. The good thing, though, is that at least until he starts getting better and feels a bit more amicable, Loki won't steal his food. Tony knows for a fact that he's not as picky normally as he is right now—he'd gone grocery shopping with him for hell's sake—but it's just as well. He's got a feeling the god will eat plenty once he's able.

Actually, the bigger problem is that he needs to get more food period, because he's almost out. And that's not him being picky, he's just forgotten to get Jarvis to have more sent. Peanut butter and jelly's going to have to work.

It takes a bit of scraping the dregs out of the bottoms of the jars, but there's almost enough for a sandwich. Eh, close enough. He makes another mug of tea, too, since a certain idiot decided to go prancing around in the snow.

*'*'*

To be honest with himself (which is something that does on occasion, although not always), he's frightened. His mind's not right, his body's not right– no, he takes that back. His body is a traitor of the worst kind.

He can't fight, not long in this condition and certainly not when it's combined with blindness, and he can't run. Too many people are after him, Stark is ridiculously persistent, and again—he's not in good condition. That leaves one option, and one he happens to be well-versed in—hiding. It's hard to find a place when he has no idea where anything is and hasn't walked these quarters extensively before, but he'll make do.

He always does.

*'*'*

Tony walks back to the bedroom with a mug that keeps trying to overflow in one hand, a bottle of soda in the other, and the sandwich held a little awkwardly between his teeth (shut up, it works).

He really, _really_ shouldn't be as surprised as he is.

Naturally, Loki's up and disappeared again—most likely as soon as he'd turned his back—and now it's back to their little game of find-the-missing-trickster.

"Ah, Jarvis? And idea on the location of our wayward chaos god?

"It would appear he's downstairs, sir. If I might ask, did you honestly believe that he would just go back to the bed?"

He scows. Of _course_ he had to program his AI to be snarky. "Shut up."

All in all, Jarvis hasn't been that helpful. See, his tower is pretty big, and there are a lot of things down the stairs from the penthouse. Thankfully this time it's only a floor down, because otherwise that would have been a nightmare to search through, and considering it was supposed to be empty meant the sound coming from the other room was a pretty good hint to his position.

*'*'*

Admittedly, it isn't his best job at hiding.

*'*'*

When he finds him, Loki is sitting in the corner of the guest-suite shower, knees pulled up to his chest and fidgeting even worse than before. He also happens to be soaking wet because he's turned the water on, and it's practically a sauna with how hot it is.

"Loki?" he asks cautiously, not wanting to end up unconscious again.

The god flinches and backs up, head resting on his knees.

Tony kneels beside him, careful to make enough noise that he won't spook him again. Holy shit, the water is practically boiling, how can Loki stand this? Still, the god's obviously freaked out, so he sits against the tile beside him and wraps an arm around his shoulders. It takes a few minutes, but eventually Loki leans into it. The god's just staring out into the distance, almost completely zoned out but still unable to sit still.

"Damn, Blitzen, is it that bad?"

The way he tenses and cries out suddenly a couple minutes later confirms that yes, it is.

They sit quietly for a time, the only sound that of the water as it falls and splashes against the tile floor. Loki's getting progressively worse, and they both know it, although the god still doesn't understand why. The not-peace is broken when jolts to his feet and stumbles to the toilet to throw up.

Tony kneels beside him, pulling the god's hair back into a ponytail again.

All of this, this taking care of people business? So not his style. He's not mom material. Apparently he falls into the keep-the-psycho-supervillain-alive category, though. Seriously, what the hell?

When he's finished, Loki curls up on the cool floor, teary-eyed and shaky. Tony cleans up, then goes to sit by his side, rubbing the god's back and talking quietly about completely pointless shit that he won't understand anyway. He hates silence when it's uncomfortable like that.

"Let's get you back upstairs, yeah? Saltines might not be fantastic, but a couple should help get the taste out of your mouth and then we can try to find something to keep you occupied."

Loki doesn't give any response, but stands on shaky legs when prompted. The whole thing's taking a lot out of him, and he's not sure how the whole Asgardian physiology is playing into that, but Tony's pretty ready for it to be over.

Well, at least the first few days. They're in it for the long haul now, whether they like it or not—and that's definitely a not.

He helps him to the elevator and back to the bedroom, searching for another set of clothes for him. There are only so many pyjamas in his closet, though, and they don't fit the god that well. At some point they're going to need to either get their hands on the things from Loki's apartment or buy new ones. Deciding autonomy while he can have it is probably better for him, Tony hands the god a towel to dry off before he changes, then finds an old t-shirt and sweats to wear himself, since his clothes got wet too.

When he turns back, Loki has the covers pulled up over his head and it looks like he's trying to control the restlessness again. Tony knows there's a lot of effort going into it, but it's not enough for the god to succeed in his endeavor.

It's not really that late, only eight or nine, but given the day they've had it may as well be bedtime. Fingers crossed Loki actually gets some sleep tonight, because tomorrow's probably going to be one of his worst days and being exhausted isn't going to help.

Tony grabs a small handful of crackers and nudges the god so he'll take them. He does, reluctantly, but hey—better than nothing. After that he goes back to tossing and turning, alternating between pulling the grey fleece blanket over his head and kicking it off entirely when he gets hot. It's hard to watch.

"Ég er svo þreytt…"

His cell phone's on the nightstand, but he can read the letters from here.

_I'm so tired._

"Loki…"

The god turns over so he's facing away from him and sighs. It's a sound of defeat.

"Hey, c'mere." He's careful not to scare him this time, purposefully moving so the bed will dip slightly before resting a hand on the his shoulder. Loki tips his head in his direction again, a questioning look on his face.

"Get your ass over here, you're making me restless just watching you. Alright?" He tugs on the god's sleeve a little to try and get his meaning across. After a moment he acquiesces, and Tony ends up sitting against the headboard while Loki lies staring up at the ceiling, head in his lap.

"Jarvis? Wanna DJ an orchestra concert for us?"

Bach's Partita for solo violin No. 2 in D minor plays quietly, and Loki immediately perks up.

"You know this one?"

He smiles, a tinge of sorrow in his eyes, and closes his eyes. Tony runs his fingers through the god's hair, watching him slowly relax—the restlessness and twitching haven't stopped by any means, and he's still essentially going through the most miserable flu ever on top of that—but for a little while everything feels just a tiny bit more peaceful. When Loki's finally fallen asleep, which is a miracle unto itself, he calls up the holograms of his current project and works to the sound of violins.

*'*'*

Eventually he falls asleep as well, and all is quiet on the western front. It's hard to say how many hours pass, as it's neither an exceptionally long span of time nor a remarkably short one, but possibly the first extended period since all this started that they've both been in relative peace at the same time.

*'*'*

A sudden brightness wakes him, light filtering through his eyelids until he opens them groggily to see Pepper standing in the doorway with a mixture of shock, confusion, and fear written on her face. Tony's still half asleep, and the god completely so since the blindness makes the change irrelevant. Why's she look so– oh, right. Loki.

She opens her mouth to speak, or shout, or whatever her plans are, but he puts a finger on his lips to quiet her. His phone is just out of reach so instead he opens another holographic screen and texts her that way.

_I promise to explain, but he finally fell asleep and I don't want to move and wake him up. Don't say anything or make too much noise, he'll freak out. Okay? Just trust me for now._

For a few moments it looks like that's the last thing she'll do, but she finally nods and closes the door behind her as she leaves.

Whoops.

Merry Christmas, Pepper.

* * *

_**Author's Note:**_  
_Bach's Partita for solo violin No. 2 in D minor: youtu{{DOT}}be/6KaYzgofHjc_


	13. Traitor

Loki whines and curls in on himself, whimpering unintelligible strings of Asgardian in his sleep, and Tony's been dozing on and off since a certain girlfriend appeared home at one of the worst possible times ever. Well, okay, probably not the worst—the whole Loki-going-psycho incident wasn't fantastic—but still not a fantastic time. This is going to be fun… Right now he's half-awake and has gone back to running fingers through the god's hair in an attempt to keep him asleep. Him being tired will make all of this a thousand times harder to deal with.

It slowly becomes clear that what he assumes to be a nightmare isn't going to stop, so as gently as he can he shakes the god awake. About a second and a half later, there are hands around his throat and a hyperventilating asgardian three inches from his face, eyes wide and teeth bared. Oh for fuck's sake.

"Loki," he wheezes through the (slightly not mortal-killing) grip, "just a dream, not good to kill your host, that's generally considered bad manners." After a moment the god lets go and sits back, chest heaving.

"f-fyrirgefa mér."

Tony watches him for a few minutes, letting him calm down. "You alright?"

Loki winces and wraps his arms around his stomach with a moan.

"Gonna take that as both a yes and a no. Is it okay if I run out into the common room for a few minutes? Pepper kind'a showed up earlier this morning and I should probably explain myself before she calls S.H.I.E.L.D. on both our asses. She's too goody-two-shoes sometim– Loki?"

At the mention of the dumb government assholes the god pales and scrambles backwards to the point that Tony worries for half a second he's going to fall off the bed.

"nei, nei, nei, ekki segja þeim að ég er hér, ekki kalla þá, ég vil ekki að fara aftur í Asgard–!" If he'd been wide-eyed before, this takes the cake. Holy shit.

"Woah, Loki," Tony moves forward and rests a hand on Loki's shoulder and is again worried he'll fall off the bed with how much he immediately flinches and cowers. "I'm not calling them. I'm going to go makes sure Pepper doesn't, okay? It's alright…" The god slowly slows his breathing (with noticeable effort). "Tell you what—I had Happy run out and find shit you'll actually eat, so while I'm out there I'll make some toast in case you're hungry. Sound good?"

Loki can't understand him, of course, and doesn't look convinced, but pulls the grey blanket he seems to have claimed for his own around his shoulders and lies back down in a relatively safe spot for not ending up on the floor.

"I'll be back in just a few, try not to run off again?" No response, naturally. He walks out of the room, quietly closing the door behind him, and goes to find Pepper. She's sitting on the couch with a tablet, and when she glances up he tries to gauge her reaction. No such luck.

"I think you've got some explaining to do." How the fuck does she always keep her voice so level? Must be a side effect of putting up with him for god only knows how many years.

Playing it cool, Tony heads to the kitchen (which is, for the most part, open to the rest of the room save for the counter that divides them) and hunts around for the schmancy bread that's supposed to be around here somewhere.

"Merry Christmas to you too. How was the party? Well, tell me about Tokyo first, the party was probably boring."

She sends him a warning look. "Tony…"

"Yeah?" What does she expect him to say?

Pepper switches which leg is crossed and sets down the tablet on the coffee table. "For starters, please tell me that's not who I think it is."

"Depends on who you think it is. I hereby swear it's not Barney, the Pope, or your little brother."

"I don't have a little brother."

Aha! So _that's_ where Happy stashed the bread. Why the hell is it in a drawer? That's dumb.* Bread belongs on the counter. "Which is why I'm so sure that it's not him."

"I'm not laughing, Tony."

"Alright, who do you think it is then? By the way, I'm pretty sure I have a constitutional right to not self-incriminate. I learned that when I was like eight years old and graffitied an equation on the cafeteria wall that would draw a dick if you graphed it."

She sighs, rubbing her temples. "Is that or is it not Thor's brother?"

"Oh, see, you should have asked that before. And it's not, he's adopted. Pretty sore about the subject too, from what I've seen. If you're asking if it's Loki, though, then yeah."

How the hell does she keep her face so calm while still looking like she's going to kill him? She and Loki should start a club.

"Please give me one good reason I shouldn't call S.H.I.E.L.D. right now."

That's an easy one. "Because if you do, I'll leave the Avengers and Loki will probably kill you. He's scary good at shit like that."

"You're not helping your case, Tony. Why were you in bed with the man who killed Phil and half of Manhattan? Actually, just start with why he's here at all, unless those two are related."

Okay, exaggeration much? More like a third of Midtown. If that. And wait, is she asking–? "What? No! We're not sleeping together! Well, not in that way, we were both technically asleep, but not like that!"

She waits for him to continue.

"I already told you why he's here, didn't I?"

"I don't recall you ever saying Loki was at the tower."

Why is this toaster so complicated? Why does a toaster need buttons? "Are you sure? Because I'm pretty sure we were chatting on the phone yesterday afternoon."

"Trust me, I would have remembered if you mentioned him."

"Remember when I told you my friend overdosed?"

Her eyes widen. "Loki poisoned someone?"

What? Tony sighs. "No, well, not in the way you think. He's the one who OD'd."

"Sorry if I'm having a little bit of trouble hearing correctly, but I think you just said that _Loki_ overdosed." Suddenly her expression turns to one of concern. "Tony, is he threatening you? Or controlling your mind?"

"No! And it's not like he showed up at my door for a pity party, either. He went off-grid for a couple months and I started to get worried, so I hunted him down and found him passed out in an abandoned subway tunnel with an empty bottle of morphine."

And… now she's confused. Fair enough, though. "Why would Loki have morphine in the first place?"

"Do I look like I know?"

"Well if you're playing house, which we're getting to in a minute because I have a few more questions there, didn't you ask him?"

"Ah, yeah, there have been some communication issues. Namely that I don't speak Asgardian, at all. So unless you do, or at least speak Icelandic, it's going to be a little while before we can ask."

"Assuming I believe that he's not just bluffing, there's a translator on your phone. This isn't the middle-ages."

Tony flops down in one of the chairs to the right. "Ah… yeah, I probably forgot to mention that he's blind."

"What?"

"Has been for a while. Has to have been… well, three months definitely, but apparently since before he showed up on Earth again."

The rough overview continues, with a very skeptical and unimpressed Pepper, while he tries to convince her that yes, he's telling the truth and no, he's not sleeping with Loki. Granted, given his history it's probably a fair worry, but still.

"Does anyone else know about this?" she asks when he finishes.

Tony shakes his head. "Just you and Happy. S.H.I.E.L.D. knows he's on Earth, or at least that he was, because he kind of showed up and saved Tasha's life, but they lost track of him almost immediately."

"I'm not sure that's a good idea, Tony…" She's not _quite_ looking at him like he's crazy, but it's close.

"Pepper, when I should have died in Afghanistan, someone saved me. I don't talk about it much because I don't like to think about it, but there was a man named Yinsen who practically dragged my sorry ass back to life and was there the entire time while I recovered. He's the one who stuck an electromagnet in my chest and who helped me build the first arc reactor. He's the one who built the first suit with me and risked his life doing it. If it hadn't been for him, I wouldn't be here right no–"

He jumps when the toast pops up. "Fuck, does it need to be that loud? Anyway, Loki, in there? He needs someone. I'm a pretty shitty guy for the job, but neither of us were ever really deserving of second chances. Damn it all to hell if I'm not going to help him through this, because he knows what's going on as much as I did five years ago, and you told me yourself that I'm not heartless."

She looks at him like a mother would look at a particularly petulant child, and speaks just as patronizingly. "Except Loki is a terrorist who destroyed half of Manhattan, and you're Iron Man."

"I'm the Merchant of Death, for fuck's sake! If you stop exaggerating shit then Loki took down, what, a quarter of Midtown? I could level a whole town with a couple missiles while I ate pizza on my sofa in Malibu, and I did. Whoever was pushing the launch button doesn't really matter, because I'm the one who happily made quicker and deadlier weapons and sold them for pocket change. When it comes down to it, I have more blood on my hands than he does—the only difference is I went after the middle east, and he came for us."

"So, what, you're going to help him recover and then turn him into a superhero?"

Okay, is she really as excited about that idea as she sounds?

"Fuck no. Do you honestly think that could ever happen? He's no hero, and anyone who thinks he'll 'reform' is an idiot who needs to get checked into a psych ward. Loki is dangerous, off-balance, and a living weapon. He always will be."

Pepper glares, and a couple years ago he might have caved and let her have her way."You do realize that this is way past a felony, right? If Fury finds out he's here and wants to, he could have you tried for treason. _Treason,_ Tony. This isn't a joke."

It's starting to feel like when he'd throw one of his arc reactors into overdrive, how the heat that would spread from its core outwards through his body until it felt like his blood was on fire—as though the phantom memory of his glass and metal heart alone is enough to power his body into a fight. Does she not get it? Is she seriously missing the obvious quite so much?

"Pepper," he says, with the sort of sudden calm that surrounds blinding rage and compresses it into a missile ready to detonate. "You're right. This isn't a joke. I am completely serious when I say that if you threaten one of us then you threaten the other, and I don't take kindly to threats."

"Ton–"

"You're one of the most important people in my life, Pepper, don't for a second think you're not, but that doesn't mean you get to rule my life—either get with the program, or get out of the tower. However much of a crazy, slightly-psychotic asshole he is, I'm not tossing him out or calling the Avengers. Got it?" The anger that's been sitting in a pressure cooker for the past five minutes is about to blow at her complete inability to see his side of things. Is she even trying? "This isn't me seeing how far I can push the line for the fun of it, or taking a piss on Fury's parade out of spite. This is me doing something because it's right."

She stares, and apparently for the first time since they've met he's completely thrown her for a loop. Silence stretches between them, heavy and stifling, as they try and fail to understand the other's point of view.

Eventually, she breaks it.

"So you're choosing him over me."

Tony sighs, running a hand through his unkempt hair. "Why does it have to be a choice, Pep? I want to spend Christmas with you, and I don't want to make Loki go through this alone. Is it really impossible to do both?"

"It's not–… You should have told me, Tony, ages ago when you first saw him on Earth. You definitely should have told me when you first brought him here, and you didn't give me any warning before I came home. Are you seeing the problem here? Not to mention how reckless this is, and the fact that if something happens that now I'm caught in it too, whether I want to be or not. It's like Iron Man all over again, but with even higher stakes."

"Oh, come on. When have high stakes ever bothered me?"

Pepper looks at him sadly. "And that's the whole problem. You forget the consequences too easily, while the rest of us have to watch you self-destruct. One day you're going to run out of luck, and the odds will finally stack up higher than you can climb. You're not immortal, Tony. I worry about you."

"Yeah, I know…" He looks down. "I just can't leave him to fend for himself when there's no way he can."

A tiny, joking smile tugs at her lip. "Tony, have you found a stray kitten?"

"What? Hell no! And if you ever compare him to something like that while he can hear you, I am _not_ responsible for the consequences."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Tony cocks his head, hopeful. "So… does this mean we're good?"

She sighs, but after a minute nods. "Yeah, we're good."

"You're awesome." Thank god for Pepper Potts. Now he can't stop grinning.

"But–" she cuts in, effectively ending his mental victory lap. "I'm not comfortable being involved in this, Tony. He's killed a lot of people—a lot of _good_ people—and there's a pretty huge price on his head. Like I said, this isn't something you can get bailed out of. Offering him asylum is probably the riskiest thing you've done, which is saying something, and if it goes belly-up then there's going to be a lot of fallout and no way back."

It's not something he's actively thought about, but at the same time he's always realized that the risks he takes are generally all-or-nothing. Tony nods. "And you're not the sort of person who likes to play with matches."

"If you play with fire long enough, someone's going to get burned. Besides, he's more like an arc reactor bomb than a match."

"Fair enough."

Pepper watches him for a minute. "I take it you know where this is going?"

"Pretty sure, yeah. You want an alibi?"

"At least a dozen witnesses?"

He nods. "Will do. How long are you thinking?"

"I need to think about things and make a decision on how much I want to get involved, if I do at all. Give me at least a week, possibly more depending on how things go and how crazy things get with the company."

"Gotcha. Jarvis, you with me, buddy? Airtight alibi for one Pepper Potts, she was never here" Tony smiles at her. "Or you could just use your Jedi mind tricks that you do."

"That's called normal conversation, Tony," she tells him drily.

"Boring. Anyway, when you leave, Jarvis will edit you out of any security footage since you got off the plane and add you to another location's. Everything will be golden. Now, you staying for food, or what?"

"I don't know," Pepper admits with a sigh, "part of me wants to, but after what happened I don't feel safe this close to him."

"So does this mean I have to fend for myself when it comes to Christmas dinner?"

She hits his arm playfully and laughs. "Thanks for the priorities."

"Any time. Seriously, though, sure you don't want to stay? He doesn't bite, I– okay, well I can't promise, but he hasn't bitten anyone on Earth yet as far as I'm aware. Who the fuck even knows what happens on Asgard, they're all crazy up there."

"I have family nearby who I haven't seen in over a year, I'll be fine. It'll be nice to see them."

He pouts.

"Oh, hush. You're just jealous that they'll get better food than you."

"It's a valid concern!"

Pepper rolls her eyes and pulls him into a kiss. "Since you'll miss the mistletoe," she says with a smile.

"I still want to hear about Tokyo; you'd better call me. Otherwise I'll have Jarvis flash porn on the screen while there are kids in the room."

"Merry Christmas to you too, Tony."

When the elevator dings and the doors slide open, he calls after her.

"Merry Christmas, Pepper."

*'*'*

Loki's sitting in the bathroom when he returns, generally looking like shit. Tony sighs.

"How're you feeling? I mean, not good obviously, but…" He sits beside the god, staring at the wall. "Crisis averted, by the way. Pepper's going to live and let live on this one; jury's out as to whether she'll be hanging out here in the future. Apparently it's treason to harbor an interplanetary war criminal or something. Who'da thunk?"

The silences between the two of them are a lot more natural than the one he'd faced with Pepper. Funny how things change in, what, a day and a half? Granted, it's been one of the longest days of his life, which is saying something. He's sat through Stark Industries board meetings before, and not the fun kind. More the kind where people keep going on about investments and budgets and stuff. It's not like they're exceptionally low on funding right now, there's not _that_ much to discuss—yeah, keeping track of things is good, but they're a little overboard on that whole topic.

Wait, so, if Pepper's right, is he a traitor? To the entire planet.

Now he really has done everything.

Huh.

The god moans again and pulls his knees up to his chest, hugging them and tearing up. "ég skil ekki, ég vil b-bara að það að hætta hvers v-vegna… er ég að deyja svona? ég gerði ekki-… h-hvað er að gerast við mig? hvers vegna ert þú hér? ég er r-ruglaður, ég vil bara það allt að h-hætta að m-meiða…"

He doesn't have to understand the words to get the meaning behind them; Tony'd be scared too, if it were him. All things considered, Loki's handling things incredibly well—he's a master when it comes to schooling his emotions and controlling himself. That's what makes it so much harder when he _does_ break down. It's obvious that he's in a lot of pain.

After a few minutes it becomes clear that the god's not planning on moving anytime soon thanks to what Tony's guessing is the nausea. He decides to gather a couple blankets to at least help make him comfortable—it's not the greatest help, but it's better than nothing. It seems to help a little, which he supposes is what counts, and now they've got a comfy little nest of dark teal pillows and grey fleece to camp out in until the bed is decided upon as the better option.

The more he's around the god, the more he starts to wonder what he's thinking about all this time while it's quiet. If it were him, it would be plans and tech for an hour or so and then immense boredom would set in—he has to be doing something or he'll drive himself crazy. Meanwhile, mister reindeer seems content to sit in silence without any fuss. It's weird, but interesting. They're opposites in that regard.

He's pulled out of his musings by a brush of fingers over his own. It takes a couple seconds to vault his mind back into the present (it's always been a problem of his that he'll get caught up in his thoughts and have a hard time transitioning back), but once he is, he makes the connection and takes the hand in his. Loki doesn't say anything, so neither does he, but the way the god relaxes speaks for itself. Tony's never sure what to make of that—for the most part, the god is very standoffish and rarely seeks out any sort of contact, but when he has it, it's the quickest thing to calm him down. Well, on the occasions that he doesn't pull away or try to hurt him. Which has happened.

Loki's eyes are closed and he tilts his head back, jaw clenched and breaths controlled.

Watching him now… he's broken. Maybe he has been for a while, or maybe forever, but he's definitely not in one piece. There'd been hints of that, when out of nowhere Tony'd be pinned to a wall or his gaze would go blank for a half a second while they were talking, but he hadn't thought much of it—that was just Loki. Some crazy Asgard thing, because who the fuck even knows. But sitting on the bathroom floor next to him, the grip on his hand just this side of mortal-crushing, while the god arches up in pain and kicks out? This is Loki sans-walls, at least as much as he ever is.

He's proven himself a terrifying force of willpower, fiercely intelligent (that day in the park when he could do ridiculous math in his head, just—woah), and a violent warrior. It's not hard to tell why he would be considered an actual deity a millennia or so ago. He's untouchable. Even just talking in the coffee shop was always like watching a master play chess.

Tony had never meant to find the god like he had—if anything, he'd expected to need the suit in order to stop some world-ending plot—but suddenly he's, well, not human obviously, but you get the point. In a way it's humbling, but in the worst way imaginable. How Loki's ended up here he doesn't know, just that he's not going to let him get stuck in this rut.

Because now, somewhere behind the fucked-up past and the layers of anger, there's a person.

A very scared, confused person in a hell of a lot of pain.

Now that he's seen him near-dead by his own hand, scared out of his mind, sobbing in pain and frustration, begging for morphine, and calling out in the midst of nightmares, he's not a god. At least not entirely.

He's Loki.

* * *

_**Author's Note: ***Disclaimer: The opinions on the logicality of bread storage expressed by Tony Stark herein are solely those of the asshole and do not necessarily reflect the views of the author._

_For those of you who've asked about updates: I've actually written forty-nine chapters of this so far, at a bit over 200k words, and for the time being plan to post a chapter or two a day for the next month or so until it catches up with where I'm currently at. Then things will probably be weekly, depending on work, school, and how cooperative Tony and Loki are being with my writing. Sometimes they can be downright pains in my ass. I love them though, they're a ton of fun to write, so you don't need to worry about me abandoning the fic either. I've been writing it for almost a year now, and don't plan to stop any time soon._


	14. Dread

Around two in the afternoon, Loki's lying upside-down in an armchair complaining about anything and everything in Asgardian. Tony's long since rolled his eyes and given up on trying to keep him occupied or involved in anything, because the god seems quite determined to drive him insane with the constant moaning. And not the pain kind, either, just the my-life-is-awful-pity-me sort. It's hard to tell if that means he's feeling better or worse.

Part of him secretly hopes it means he's feeling worse, because if he's going to keep this up as he gets better, then Tony will have to throw _himself_ out a window.

"Oh for fuck's sake, will you please just _shut up_ for five minutes?"

"Hvað sem þú ert að fara á um, mér er sama. Þú ert viðbjóðsleg hálfviti með ekkert vit á virðingu eða hegðun og það er fyrirlitlegur," the god spits back with a scowl. "Ég er orðin leið tilveru þína og vona að valkyrjunum að næst þegar þú ferð á að berjast sumir sorglegt vildi-vera illmenni þú deyja hægt og ragir dauða."

"Jarvis, do I want to know?"

Loki jumps when the AI speaks, but whatever. He can get over it if he's so determined to give Tony a headache.

"Probably not, sir. He was insulting your existence and informing you that he hopes you die."

Naturally.

"Really? Were you, like, born with the asshole gene or what, because last time I checked it was me who was putting up with your sorry ass while you steal my bed and go for romps in the snow."

"Sonur hóra."

"I'm not going to translate that for you," Jarvis informs him, "as I feel the end result would be less than desirable."

"Þegiðu, heimskur tölva, ég hata þig líka."

"Your comment will be noted and taken into consideration in the future."

"Wait, Jarv, what'd he just tell you?" Tony sits up from where he's sprawled out on the bed, flicking the volume mesh he's been toying with back up to a comfortable working height.

"A shortened version of his message to you."

Yep, no denying it—Loki's a dick. Please remind him why he thought this would be a good idea? Uggh… He needs Pepper. Pepper would know how to manage the god—she knows how to handle _him,_ after all. Come to think of it, how does she even do that? Considering he's, well, Tony Stark.

*'*'*

Does the mortal never stop prattling on about useless things in that lazy, limited language? He doesn't need to understand the words to know that they're only there to fill the quiet. It's obnoxious.

Loki is _bored._ Bored beyond all reason, and were it not for this recent development then this amount of boredom would usually end poorly for those around because he'd use it to plan. Right now his head is hurting too much for that, though, so instead he decides to make the idiot shut up by speaking himself. Within ten minutes there's blessed silence from the other man, and he's free to ramble about anything or throw empty insults at him. The latter is far more fun than the former, and he currently feels like he's been trampled by goats, so he goes with that.

At present, there's a ridiculous amount of pain shooting from his neck down his spine and to his heels. What manner of nonsense is this, anyw–

Thrice-cursed huntress, make it _stop–!_

He turns right-side-up and finds the chair makes a much better pillow than it does a seat. For whatever reason, one of the blankets is exceptionally comfortable, and he's decided that if he's going to die in agony, he'll at least do so with something soft. Plus, if he pulls it over his head, he can pretend he's a valskjálf.

Is he acting like he's three hundred and twelve? Yes.

Does he care? Not as long as the mortal doesn't know.

Quite frankly, his mind keeps cycling through every age imaginable and it's not worth trying to control. Some moments he's back in the palace gardens hiding between bushes, some he's clawing his way through the snow after escaping his bonds on Asgard. It hardly matters; his body is falling apart, and whatever motivation the man has to pretend to care, there's no point in refusing food and a bed. It's only to be expected, after all, he is a prince, and the lower class would be expected to offer him food and board were he to arrive at their residencies. They just wouldn't usually watch him fall like this. There's a reason he keeps trying to escape—wasting away in the home of a mortal is no form of honor. It would be far better to find a nice place in the forest to curl up and let Urðr tie off his thread.

*'*'*

Loki is possibly the most confusing, contradictory person that Tony's ever met. One minute he's curled up in his lap, the next sitting sideways on one of the armchairs, and three seconds later he's baring his fangs and storming around the room with the blanket billowing out around him (apparently he's come to learn the room to a decent degree, although sometimes he'll bump into something that's moved, at which point _watch out if you enjoy staying alive)._

He might be smart, but the god is so completely illogical that there's no way he'll ever even come close to figuring him out.

Currently, the angry tyrant piece of the cycle seems to have subsided, which is nice for the most part. Unfortunately, though, it turns out that the whining before wasn't Loki feeling better, not by a long shot. Maybe he was temporarily, but now the god is learning the hard way why it's called 'kicking the habit.' To be honest, the anger is probably going to come back full-force when he stops whimpering, because if there's one thing that's become abundantly clear it's that Loki absolutely _loathes_ not being completely in control all the time.

They both already knew he had a temper. Those two combined don't lead to happy endings for anyone involved.

It's a slow and painful Christmas day, and for Loki's part it's gotta feel like this is never going to end. When all this is over, though, Tony's going to be in a really bad position, having seen the god at his weakest. There's probably going to be backlash for this. Oh well, no fun in living safely.

On the plus side, there's tech being planned, so that's always nice—another day of work and then Jarvis can have a prototype made for testing.

At one point, Loki yells something that sounds particularly unseemly at Jarvis until more music starts playing. If it weren't for the fact that he'd probably get killed for doing it, Tony would break down laughing at the absurdity of it all.

–––

Aside from a couple moments of comedic relief, after around four thirty things start going downhill quickly. The kicking gets worse, Loki is tossing and turning almost constantly, and is swinging between hot and cold at a speed that Tony didn't know was physically possible. He obviously needs food—but can't keep anything down for more than an hour—and looks absolutely exhausted.

The begging starts again.

Were it not for the fact that he knows this will end soon, he might even be inclined to give in just to ease the god's pain. He's honestly surprised that Loki hasn't torn the sheets with how hard he's been clawing at the mattress. That whole thing about 'the bigger they are, the harder they fall' seems to hold true.

"h-hvers vegna verður þú ekki láta mig draga úr s-sársauka? annaðhvort hjálpa mér eða láta m-mig deyja, vinsamlegast…. ekki d-draga þetta út. þ-það er engin heiður í d-dauða eins og þetta! minnsta k-kosti að keyra mig í gegnum með hníf!"

Jarvis translates, and Tony pales.

"Loki, no, I'm not doing that. I swear that this will get better, the worst is almost over."

The god cries out, then stares up at him, eyes red from tears. "h-hjálpa mér!"

_Help me._

He climbs onto the bed, kneeling at his side. "Loki." The asgardian looks up in his direction again, and he tugs on his sleeve. "Come here."

Of course, he hesitates as usual, but another insistent tug is enough to convince him. Once he's sitting, Tony pulls the god toward him, and before he can even register what's happened he has a lap full of desperate, clingy Loki. He's shaking and panting, and rests his head on Tony's shoulder.

This is kind of awkward.

On a scale from one to being drawn and quartered, burned alive, cut into a thousand pieces, and strung up across the skyline—how dead will he be when Loki realizes he's survived this? Considering the whole honor thing that Asgard seems to be ridiculously obsessed with, probably the more extreme end of the spectrum. Fuck everything.

A few minutes later, the god whispers one word against his neck.

"vinsamlegast-…"

_Please._

For a moment, everything becomes surreal at just how serious Loki is about this. The seconds feel like an eternity as he tries to process how they've come this far.

"Loki. I'm not going to kill you. And I swear to whoever the fuck matters that if you try that yourself, I'll make all of this seem like a scrape on the knee." He can feel the god's heart racing—a byproduct of the adrenaline the withdrawals are so kindly providing—and he's so tense he's going to crush Tony if he's not careful. There is honest danger to his life right now if Loki doesn't ease up a little bit.

"ég get ekki tekið þetta, ekki gera mig meiða svo illa áður en ég dey. bara enda það! bara stöðva sársauka, ég get ekki tekið það aftur!"

"I am _not. Going. To kill you!"_

_–––_

Ten twenty-seven is the worst. Ten twenty-seven is when Loki stops begging, stops moaning, stops making any noise of pain at all. He's still drenched in sweat, kicking out in both pain and involuntarily, digging his nails into his hair, arching up off the bed… at one point he has his face buried in a pillow, clutching it to his chest like his last hope at survival, and fights with everything he has to stop moving. It works for a few minutes before his resolve breaks and he goes back to shuddering. Occasionally he'll stop long enough to retch, but it's been so long since he's kept food down that it's never more than that.

When his body fights back, it fights back _hard._ No wonder why it's so bad—if he was on this shit long enough to get dependent, and he adapts as quickly as Thor does, then he had to be upping the dose ridiculously. Coming down off of that cold turkey is compacting all of the effects into the very opposite symptoms and looping them as feedback.

In some ways, he wonders if he should have tapered him off of the drugs slowly to let his body acclimatize to the change. It might have helped, and the god would have understood it better, but the chances of him fighting or relapsing that way would be absurdly high. Loki likes to think he knows better than everyone else in the room, and that the truths of the world don't apply to him. This is what Tony's done, though, and there's no way back except to restart everything and force the god through this again.

Thing is, that once this passes, it should all get easier from here on out. That's not to say it won't be difficult and trying at times, but this is the hardest that the withdrawals will hit. He knows Loki is strong enough to do it, however much pain he's in.

Hell, after this, Tony's never going to complain about something hurting ever again.

The god doesn't sleep much that night, if he does at all. Tony tries his best to stay up with him, which usually wouldn't be hard, but he dozes off a couple times only to awake five minutes later at Loki's next whimper.

At one in the morning, the worst has slowly subsided. Loki's exhausted (and with good reason) but alive, and he's going to count that as a victory. Around three he quiets again—thankfully because he's not feeling so bad this time—and by four thirty he's ravenous. Tony's doesn't let him have anything that could be hard on his stomach, but it's a really good thing that Happy went overboard on the grocery shopping because asgardian metabolisms are _ridiculous._ Six forty-five sees the god slip into a restless sleep.

In the meantime, he decides to use the time to his advantage to take a shower, get something to eat, and all those things that normal humans do and he tends to forget about. Unbeknownst to him at the time, Pepper had left a box of homemade Christmas cookies and chocolates.

Has he ever mentioned how incredibly awesome she is?

"Hey, Rudolph. How you feeling?" he asks when he returns to find the god sitting against the headboard looking incredibly pissed off.

Loki snarls back, "Þú ert sadismar, ansi dauðlega án miskunn, ég ætla að drepa þig eins óþægilegt leið og þú neyddi mig til að þola."

"He would like to inform you, sir, that you are an awful person."

"There is no way that's all he said, Jarvis."

"You are correct, but that is the distilled and less offensive version."

Tony laughs. "Right. Thanks, buddy."

"Any time."

If anything, Loki's glare is more terrifying for being blind.

"Láta mig í friði."

Jarvis interprets again, which still makes the god flinch—he really needs to ask about that later. "He says he would like you to give him space."

When Tony doesn't make any indication of leaving, the god's voice drops to a dangerous tone.

"Láta. Mig. _Í friði!_

Right. Yeah. Looks like the reindeer's angry about that whole thing after all.

It's probably best not to push Loki when he's this upset unless he's asking for pain, so he takes the cue to leave.

–––

He doesn't see the god for the rest of the day, and isn't stupid enough to go back in there unless Loki asks for him or Jarvis tells him he's in immediate danger. Instead, he spends the day in the workshop, catching up on projects that he's been putting off and setting up machines down on the fabrication floors to make the parts he'll need for the one he was working on over the past two days. With the music cranked up to unhealthy levels and more screens up than even he can reasonably use, he can finally find a small slice of normalcy amongst the crazy.

Were it not for the concern constantly in the back of his mind at present, he'd take the suit out for a joyride. There's something impossibly satisfying about just him and a little metal suit soaring above the city, up past where any planes have flown and then out across the Atlantic if he feels like it. Other times he'll spend an hour doing stupid tricks just for the hell of it—if he's able, why wouldn't he? It's an amazing rush of adrenaline that's also really effective stress relief.

As things stand that's not going to happen, so he keeps busy and tries to get as much done as possible in case more shit comes up—with the god or otherwise. He even spends a few minutes on the paperwork Pepper left him, in apology for the slightly unfortunate surprise she got on Christmas yesterday.

The day passes slowly, although not nearly as slowly as the past couple. A few hours later the pieces for his current project have finished so he collects them and spends another couple hours soldering, screwing, and gluing everything together, then uploads the software and smiles. He's a genius. Take that, dad.

Eventually, he falls asleep on the cool glass of his desk. He dreams of caves and tunnels, of life in the dark, and of desperation.

–––

Tony wakes the next morning in the same place he nodded off, with the imprints of a pair of pliers and a couple screws on his cheek—don't even ask how many times that's happened. Once he's out, he's out cold, regardless of where he's lying.

He wanders upstairs to get coffee, still half asleep, and finds Loki brewing tea. The god still looks like shit, but a bit less so than before. Things should start looking up now that they're this far. Loki glances over when Tony enters the room, but otherwise ignores him.

"How's the reindeer on this fine winter morn?"

It's not hard to hear the scowl when he speaks. "The threat to kill you still stands."

"It speaks! Well, speaks English, you were already speaking. But still! Hooray!" Tony exclaims.

"Oh, please forgive me," Loki replies, voice dripping with sarcasm, "for focusing my energy on lessening my pain instead of translating your pathetic excuse for a language."

"Woah, man. Sorry. It's kind of my job to say dumb things for the hell of it, thought you'd realized that by now. Speaking of hell, it's nice to see you slightly less moaning in pain."

The god doesn't grace that with a response.

"Right, so, do you really not know what withdrawals are?"

"I'm sorry?"

He sighs. For once, it's not nice to be right about something. "Withdrawals. The reason you've been less than thrilled with existence the past few days. The twitchy, hurty, sicky shit that's pretty much put you out of commission."

"I don't recognize the term."

"When you're on certain drugs for so long, you start to tolerate them. After a while, you become dependent, and then going off them means your body has to readjust—it's not fun. Some are worse than others, but opiates tend to be nasty."

Loki laughs darkly. "I feel that would be an understatement."

"Well, sorry, cold turkey's not the nicest way to go. It's not like I had morphine around to taper you off, though, and you weren't exactly being helpful in the communications department. Should start getting better now, though. Sorry for the sucky Christmas, that was unfortunate."

The water finishes boiling, and since when did they have a tea infuser? He's just been grabbing tea bags out of the cupboard. Schmancy.

"Seriously though, man, how are you?"

The god pauses and turns his head slightly in his direction. "I do not see how that is any concern of yours. Could I see, you would be dead already for your treatment of me. I am not incapable of handling myself, and do not need to be coddled like a babe."

"Riiight… because you totally didn't climb into my lap and cling to me like a baby koala."

Loki tenses, growling dangerously. "I did nothing of the sort, and if you dare to insult me such again, you will not enjoy the consequences."

"Dude. Chill. Not the end of the world, I don't care that you decided to get all cuddly when you felt like shit."

Apparently the tea isn't as important as it seemed, because the god is a foot away from him before he can blink. "You have no right," he snarls, "to act as a superior to me. I am no child, mortal, I am a god and a king."

God of Lies? More like god of denial. "Ah, hate to break to you, Rudolph, but you _were_ a king. Now you're just a god. Which is still pretty fancy and all, but get off your high hors–"

There's a sickening crack as Loki's fist connects with his face, and a sharp pain shoots through his jaw. He brings a hand to his mouth only to find it comes away with blood; Tony stares at the god, down at his hand, and then back up.

They're both breathing hard in anger (and pain, in his case), eyes wide.

He's frozen in place for a moment, trying to process—in all the time that they've known each other, since the park god only knows how many months ago, Loki's never hurt him. Threatened him? Yeah, of course. He's been pinned against walls, found the god's hands rather tightly around his throat, and been shaken around a bit… but even when he'd been knocked out on Christmas eve, he'd only been a little sore from lying weirdly. It had been an unspoken understanding that they'd yell at each other and generally give each other hell, but it would never _actually_ be more than empty threats.

He'd trusted Loki.

First mistake, and an incredibly obvious one looking back. The second was not having stopped while he was ahead.

Tony never thought Loki would actually injure him. The metallic taste of blood isn't unfamiliar, but certainly not something common or enjoyable.

Neither of them say anything, him staring at the god, and the god staring back in his direction as though it had taken him by surprise. When the betrayal has sunk in, he turns and leaves to get his jaw checked out.

*.*.*

Loki stands in shock as the mortal walks away.

He hadn't meant to do that. Even when his anger has run high and his blood boiled, he's never actually struck the man before.

One minute he'd been angry, furious with the mortal for speaking as he had, but even more so for his actions over the past few days. They were degrading, cowardly, and dishonorable, and he loathes himself for being so weak. For showing it to someone like Stark. And they argued, and he was scared and upset, and then the mortal had made the biggest mistake he could in bringing up the most painful memory he has—the day of his complete betrayal.

He hadn't realized his hand was moving until after the fact.

He doesn't know if he held back any of his strength or not.

Loki's stomach drops. This is bad; this is really bad. Stark is– _had_ been inexplicably kind to him. Illogically merciful, understanding, and patient even though he doesn't even remotely deserve it. It doesn't make a lick of sense, but the mortal had done so anyway.

And Norns—Loki hasn't missed the fact that he's called him a friend, multiple times, to multiple people, and never sounded insincere. It's frightening, actually, especially considering that he doesn't even consider the Avengers to be as such. Loki's purposefully ignored the subject since he doesn't know how to address it.

Stark has, for reasons completely unbeknownst to him, saved his life and stayed by his side for days while he recovered, doing everything he could to ease his pain.

How has Loki repaid that debt?

By destroying whatever trust someone had actually put in him. Granted, only a fool would dare trust him, but nonetheless. He assumes this is what guilt feels like, if only a tiny amount, although he could be wrong.

_Damn._

He should probably come up with another escape plan considering Stark will almost certainly come after him now (likely with the full force of S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers now that he's proven to be slightly less reformed than the mortal had previously seemed to think), but judging from the fact that he'd been found even in the tunnel shows that it will be nigh impossible to truly hide from a man like him.

With a resigned sigh, Loki decides that if all is about to fall to Muspelheim then at least he should finish off the tea.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Don't look at me like that, you knew there was going to be backlash after what happened.

_'Koma hér'_ in Icelandic translates to 'come here,' hence why Loki was able to interpret the meaning when the words were paired with a non-verbal indication of what was being asked.

Also, the tea he's made is ginger vanilla chai. No, I don't know why I decided that or how i did. It just happened.


	15. Fractures

_**Author's Note:** pallyndrome pointed out that there's a section of code that prevents copying story text, which makes it difficult if you want to translate the Icelandic portions through Google or another online translator. While it's not required to understand the story, if you do want to copy over the text then there are a few workarounds for it. The easiest and most browser-universal are to select-all and paste into the text editor of your choice, pull a FileSave Page As… and saving the file as HTML, or switch to mobile view (easiest way is to just switch the www portion of the url into an m). Any of the three will allow for selection, copy-paste, and all that jazz._

_Sorry for not noticing that earlier—still figuring out the quirks of FF; I tend to be an AO3 sort of person. Live and learn, I guess._

* * *

Unfortunately (although not unsurprisingly), it turns out his jaw is broken—in two places. Fucking ungrateful gods. That means he ends up with metal plates, archbars, wiring… the whole nine yards. A month or two of eating soft shit? Hell no.

Fuck his life.

Fuck Loki.

Fuck everything.

He doesn't let S.H.I.E.L.D. get their hands on him, because he's pissed a few too many people there off and doesn't trust them as far as he can throw the helicarrier. Instead, he ends up back with the same doctors who'd done the reconstruction when he'd had the arc reactor removed. They do good work, especially considering how much he'll pay without thinking twice. He needs them to—where would the world be without his pretty face?

When he wakes up a few hours later from surgery, he feels even more like shit than before. Anesthesia is hellish, and now everything's fuzzy and a little silly looking, so he decides the bed is comfortable enough and falls back asleep.

After a nice little nap—and convincing the doctors that, no, he's not going to wander around eating gobstoppers and caramels—Tony finds himself in the not-nearly-used-enough theatre in the tower, and boots up the PS4 to play Assassin's Creed. At one point, one of the people looks like Loki so he stabs him… and gets kicked out in a desynchronization for killing civilians. Dammit.

Briefly, he considers whether or not the god would like the game if he could see. There are a few outfits that remind him of the crazy green armored stuff the asgardian seems to like wearing, which he switches to and goes around assassinating people and pretending it's Asgard. This probably isn't a good sign in regards to his mental state, but whatever—his face hurts and Loki's an ass. After a while he lets himself be caught so Loki-him gets run through with a sword.

Yeah, probably not a great indicator of his sanity at all. Whoops.

He reverts back to red and gold again after he's died, and blows through a few more levels before getting bored and switching to something else. The pattern continues for a few hours, playing different games and stabbing/letting himself get stabbed whenever he finds characters that remind him of the asshole asgardian.

One of the wires catches his lip. Ow…

Hunger gnaws at his stomach, but the painkillers, while not helping that much with the pain, haven't worn off yet and his mouth feels too weird to eat.

Life sucks so badly.

*.*.*

The mortal neither steps onto the floor again nor sends word to him, and it's more than slightly discomforting. That evening he asks the computer—Jarvis, its name is, he'll have to remember that—as to Stark's condition, and learns that he'd broken his jaw. That's an unpleasant injury even for a child of Asgard, so there's no telling how it affects a human.

Loki didn't mean to do that.

It's too late to take back his actions, though, and he learned long ago that it's not worth bothering to try. It's the man's own fault, he tells himself, for acting so brashly when he is well aware of Loki's nature.

That evening, when Stark still hasn't returned, he finds his blanket and curls up to sleep on the couch. It's best not to take what is not offered when in a position such as this. Besides, it's quite large and not the least comfortable place to sleep, so still far better than the tunnel floor had been. He can hardly complain.

Admittedly, he does miss the mortal's presence when the pain flares up again that night. Degrading as it may have been, the companionship is rare and surprisingly pleasant. Ah, well, it's hardly Ragnarök. That is yet to come.

–––

The next day is spent in likely deserved boredom, with much tea and toast (despite how the mortal kept complaining about it, the toaster is not truly that difficult to use). The puzzle that Stark had given him a few days ago is still on the nightstand so he spends a few hours upside down on the sofa scrambling and solving it again. By midday he's figured out the pattern, making it far less interesting, so he yells at Jarvis until he plays music again. While he loses himself in the sound, he toys with the cube to keep his hands busy.

Another morning comes and goes, spent in much the same fashion, although that evening he starts rooting through cupboards and shelves to find something more interesting to cook. His stomach remains less than content, but he's sick and tired of tasteless food. The mortal still has not shown himself, for better or for worse, and he's confused as to why S.H.I.E.L.D. has not yet appeared. Is Stark waiting for him to drop his guard again? That makes little sense, considering he's regaining health as the days go by, but then again the man's smart enough to know he'll realize that, thus dropping his guard… it's cyclical logic, and makes his head hurt. Again, that night he falls into a troubled sleep on the couch, curled up under the soft blanket.

Sunrise creeps up again, the glass windows letting rays of warmth caress his skin as he stretches. After two months belowground, the bed and warm food are blessings. Food at all is a blessing, when it comes down to it. And _norns,_ the ability to take a hot shower… it's incredible. He decides that with so much time on his hands a bath is just as well, so he spends long enough relaxing in the water that he loses track of time. The soreness that has become a constant slowly eases to a more manageable level.

When he eventually decides that he's had enough (which truly is a long span of time) and goes to fetch his clothes from the bed, he's met with something quite different than he expects.

Loki becomes very, _very_ confused.

In place of the sweatpants he'd left is a bundle of clothes—a pair of jeans, a v-neck, the leather jacket he'd bought on a whim, his softest scarf… and the boots and gaiters he's kept in meticulous condition ever since his flight from Asgard, since they're the only pieces of his past that remain. It makes absolutely no sense. Changing into something that both fits and is _his,_ though, makes him feel more like himself than he has in a very long time. The boots especially.

Beside them, he finds two boxes. One is incredibly familiar—his violin case; Loki bites his lip and his brow furrows. There's only one logical way any of this could have gotten here, but…

_Why?_

Set on top of the case is a much smaller box, just larger than his hand and a couple inches deep. The sides are smooth, but not glossy, and four letters are embossed in braille across the lid.

_LOKI_

The only imperfection is the seam running around the perimeter where the lid meets the bottom section. Cardboard slides apart easily under his fingers and he's met with sleek, cold glass set into a cardboard insert. Tilting the box, the phone tips into his hand.

He lets his gaze slip off to the side while he learns the object by touch. It's not an iPhone like he's had, and there are only three buttons—two on one side and one on the other—which he assumes are for power and volume control. There's also a small switch just large enough to be clicked back with a fingernail, although its function is as of yet unclear, and his name is engraved on the back. That's all there is. No headphone jack, no charger port, no camera or flash like the humans seem to be so fond of, just three buttons and a switch. It's sleek, thinner than any phone he's felt, and light, with the perfect amount of weight and grip. Actually, it feels like it's made for his hand.

Was it?

He doesn't understand…

Under the insert is a new bluetooth headset in the same cool materials as the phone, and a booklet written completely in Braille, titled _"Loki's Sexy-Ass Phone: An Introduction for Idiots and Reindeer."_ As it turns out, the rest of the manual is peppered with snide remarks and rude comments, which is so ridiculously Stark that it's amusing. There's also lots of obvious bragging about how the charging is completely wireless (and while the entire building is specially wired to maximize the effectiveness, only Stark's newest, private tech can access it), the headset isn't _bluetooth_ because that's _so_ last-decade, it's on the mortal's personal satellite network, and is (apparently) completely untraceable.

When he's finished the first couple pages and decided that most of the rest is boring manual stuff, Loki decides to skip the reading and turn it on. There's one short vibration while it powers up, then he's met with something which he hadn't expected but is only slightly surprised by—the display is entirely tactile. Braille text, easily differentiable buttons and icons, and easily navigable controls which change as quickly and easily as the visual elements of the computers he'd seen used in the past fill the screen. It's kind of incredible. Suddenly, he can access every function of the technology as effectively as any sighted person would, and people really don't seem to understand how much of a difference that makes.

He grins.

The temptation to spend the next hours learning its workings is strong, but the urge to find solace in familiarity more so. Instead, he finds himself perched on the back of a chair in the common area with sunlight warming his face. His violin has fallen out of tune in the span of time he's been away, so he tightens his bow and tunes it by ear. The weight of the instrument, the way it fits perfectly under his chin, the smell of rosin and wood… they make things feel a little more within his control.

It's not long before he's lost in Paganini's 24th Caprice, eyes closed and letting the music drown out his thoughts. That's one of the reasons he loves playing so much—it's a sort of meditation, in which his mind can finally rest in ways it won't in his tormented sleep. He doesn't notice when the door to the stairs opens or a man leans in the frame, watching him quietly with arms crossed.

*'*'*

Tony stands in the doorway and listens to the god play. He's more attentive than people give him credit for, and despite the day's shock, he hadn't missed how relaxed and decidedly un-crazy Loki had seemed in the park while he was playing his violin.

Is he pissed at the raven-haired god? Hell fucking yes. That's going to put quite a dent in their relationship, but he hasn't come this far to give up now. His mouth hurts like hell, sure, and the betrayal's still strong—he honestly hadn't believed that Loki would ever injure him, especially to this degree. Then again… he caught the look in the god's eyes. The fear and panic behind the anger. He knows that look.

It's the same one he knows _he_ gets when he lashes out at people in twisted self-defense.

Damn it all to hell, but Loki's starting to grow on him. He's kind of got this awful habit of being drawn to danger like a moth to a flame, and Loki's all the worst things dumped in a nuclear reactor and set to blow. How can he possibly resist?

Seeing the god sitting there, finally comfortable again (still fighting off the effects of the withdrawals, but significantly improving as the days pass), makes him happier than he'd care to admit. The Asgardian boots with the black jeans is a little bit of an odd combination, but so incredibly _him_ at the same time that it just fits. Back during the battle when they'd first met, he never would have imagined Loki playing any sort of instrument, let alone violin, but again, seeing it now—it just makes sense (and it's a little weird, but he's started to notice that when he's occupied, the seemingly involuntary twitches in the god's hands seems to lessen if not disappear altogether). The whole thing is such an opposite image from the last time they'd stood face-to-face that it's hard to believe the two men are the same person.

Tony leaves before Loki finishes the song, not wanting his presence to be known, but the picture is painted in his mind for a good while afterwards. On the way back down to the floor he's been staying on (there's a guest room three levels below the penthouse that's comfortable which he's set up computers and hologram equipment in) he asks Jarvis how the god had reacted to the phone. He's been working on the design ever since he'd had the idea back while he sat with Loki during the worst of the withdrawals, and while it's taken a bit of poking around to properly and effectively implement, he's quite proud of the end result. Now that he's figured it out he's considering adding the function to future StarkPhones, at least as an optional add-on feature, because he's never really considered how difficult it is to navigate the modern world—or any world—without sight. Little everyday things that he doesn't think about he's noticed the god struggling with, and that change could potentially do a lot of good for people who otherwise have to rely on idiotic contraptions like the pathetic attempt at an AI that is Siri. Google's doing slightly better with the whole always-listening touchless Google Now thing, but it's still nowhere near what he's been introducing into his own designs. There's a switch on the side of Loki's phone that alternates the screen between normal and Braille modes in case the god ever reclaims his sight or another person needs to use it, but he assumes for the most part the Braille will win out. Once they're on speaking terms again, they might have to have a chat to see how he can further improve upon the idea. It's become a pretty fun challenge…

His fucking jaw hurts. Asshole.

Seriously, all the metal and rubber bands and shit are a nightmare to deal with, and he's going to find a way to get back at Loki somehow. Later, though, when the god isn't still going through withdrawals. He's not _that_ cruel, even after what happened.

–––

The days pass, and suddenly, before he expects it, the year inches towards its close on the thirty-first. It's never been something he's paid close attention to—so what if the calendar starts over? Why celebrate some arbitrary date? Birthdays sort of make more sense because, yay, you made it around the sun again, but new year's? Like, what's the point? It's kind of dumb, except for the fact that there tend to be plenty of parties and cheap booze. The past couple years he hasn't been in the mood for dealing with the shallowness of it all, so he's opted for spending the time working on his cars or playing board games with Jarvis. Chess is pretty much impossible to win, but as long as the AI doesn't stack the virtual deck (which he's done before, the cheating bastard), he can sometimes win at Candyland.

For the most part he does the same thing this year, tearing apart an old and broken engine to replace parts and make improvements where he sees fit. Jarvis lets him know around eleven thirty that there's going to be a fireworks show within view of the balcony, so he cracks open a bottle of champagne and sits with his feet hanging over the edge. If he falls, the Mk. 43 will catch him. Hopefully. He _thinks_ it's stable this time, but after the whole 42 debacle who knows.

The city lights are bright, twinkling like manmade stars in grids across the horizon, and the slight haze that seems to surround more highly populated areas hangs overhead. It's cold, but he grabbed a coat so that even with the wind this high up it's not that terrible. The whole thing's kind of pretty, in an artificial way.

At about eleven forty-eight, he senses a presence behind him. A moment passes, after which a dark silhouette lowers to the ground beside him, and stares silently out over the cityscape. Loki doesn't speak, just sits at his side in silence.

Twelve minutes later the first rocket shoots into the sky and explodes in a shimmering burst of gold. The hissing sounds while they rise are familiar from years past, as are the booms and crackling that follow. It's an impressive show (of course, considering it's NYC) that lasts for what must be a good twenty minutes or so before the finale goes off with the sort of low vibrations that can be felt even where they sit.

When it finishes, while Tony is still staring out over the slowly-clearing smoke left in the fireworks' wake, Loki stands quietly and walks back inside.

He knows the god well enough to be well aware that the only times an apology will be cross his lips are either sarcastic, questioning, manipulative, or a combination thereof. If the asgardian were to say "I'm sorry," he'd laugh and tell him to get out. To be honest, Tony's pretty much the same way. Apologies, gratitude, etc. are all uncomfortable and stupid things, so he tends to avoid them.

Tony doesn't expect Loki to apologize, and to be honest he doesn't want him to since it wouldn't mean anything.

That, though, had felt sincere.

* * *

_**Author's Note: **Art, what? aconitine-apothecary{{DOT}}tumblr{{DOT}}com/post/71825317306_

_Paganini's Caprice No. 24: youtu{{DOT}}be/_OKPUausH64_

_Awesome Disney textured-tactile-feedback tech: bbc{{DOT}}co{{DOT}}uk/news/technology-24443271_


	16. Memory

"Loki, we need to talk."

A few weeks have passed since Tony became slightly more magnetic than he would have liked (he just got all the metal _out_ of his body, thanks). On the plus side, that means that goose-chase missions for Fury have been off the table, because while he could probably fight, he doesn't particularly care to risk it. His jaw still hurts occasionally, but it's the sort of sore that you get used to and, however irritating it is, becomes your new baseline. He can eat more stuff now, which is appreciated. Food is _awesome._ In the meantime he's played what are probably too many videogames, and killed Loki look-alikes in about eighty-five percent of them. It turns out to be good anger-management. Maybe not necessarily healthy, but effective.

The god seems to have found an interest in his new phone (the Wikipedia page on him has mysteriously updated to include a few stories sourced to 'a god, you ungrateful mortal swine'), and Tony's got enough data from Jarvis to push a new update that will fix a slight bug in the screen refresh time—for a blind Asgardian guy, Loki can read pretty damn fast.

When he steps through the door from the stairwell, Loki's head snaps up, immediately on-guard. In some ways it makes sense, but the guy really needs to loosen up a bit.

"Stark," he acknowledges.

Tony kicks off his shoes and perches on the back of the couch across from him (since the god seems to think sitting on chairs the normal way is for losers) and he's a little more comfortable being at least slightly level with him instead of below. They're equals here, and he's damn well going to act like it.

"How's life?"

"I hardly think that's what you're here to ask me. You need not bother with pleasantries, they're pointless wastes of time."

Right. Fair enough, and he knows the god is smart enough not to think he was just here to play bingo or some shit… but this is still something he'd hoped to ease into. Then again, it's Loki they're talking about. Normal rules don't apply. After making sure he has an easy escape route in the event that Loki decides he's less than thrilled with their conversation, he gets straight to the point.

"Why'd you overdose?"

That seems to take the god by surprise. No clue what he'd expected, but apparently it wasn't that.

"I'm sorry?" He leans forward, shifting a foot further out on the cushion so he can rest his arms on his legs.

"You overdosed. Why?"

Understanding withdrawals or not, Loki obviously knows what he's asking about when it comes to this sort of thing. Not one to try and deny the obvious, he at least seems to answer honestly.

"It was mostly accidental."

Be that as it may, the god's wording is almost _never_ an accident. "Mostly?"

"My metabolism is much different from that of a human. It's not like there are instructions for the proper dosage for a Norse deity. Even if there were, I'm afraid labels don't tend to be written in Braille. Between that and the fact that my body adapts so quickly, there was no easy way to gauge how much to take."

"That covers the accidental, I'm still waiting to hear the other bit."

Loki shrugs. "I wasn't being particularly careful."

"Why were you even on morphine, anyway? And how the hell did you get your hands on it? That's kind of a controlled-substance sort of deal."

"Did you honestly presume," the god says, rolling his eyes, "that I would spend any stretch of time here without making connections in the underworld? I know how to attain things I have need for, and I'm not particularly concerned about the legality of my methods now that I'm already on the run. It's really pretty simple—I was in pain; I found medicine. It happens to take more than a couple tylenol to do me any real good."

"So you decided an addictive drug was the way to go?"

"It's hardly as though I knew in advance the effects such a thing would have on my body. Besides, even if I had, what applies to your kind does not necessarily to mine. Some of your most seemingly innocuous remedies would be extraordinarily poisonous to me, and some of your poisons medicinal."

"Riiight…"

Loki adjusts one of his gaiters absentmindedly. "Don't look at me like that."

"Like what? You can't even see me!"

"I don't need to," he scoffs, "I can hear it in your voice."

"Asshole."

"I try."

Well, he supposes that this is at least clearing the air a bit. As long as he ignores the metallic taste in his mouth and the subject matter, it almost feels normal.

"Totally called it on the underground lair, by the way. Scoff all you like, but you're such a stereotypical super-villain. I'm a little disappointed that the only bones I saw were from rats, though."

"I had to eat something," the god replies nonchalantly.

Tony pales, suddenly feeling a little queasy.

"That was a joke, Stark. I wasn't quite that desperate."

"Right, okay, good. That was something I didn't really need to think about."

"Oh, come now. Are you truly so repulsed by the notion? I've been in the wilderness for long enough before to be perfectly content with stripping bark from trees and eating the cambium."

"Wait, you've–"

Loki laughs. "What, resorted to such things?"

"But you're, like, mister super-picky-eater."

"The amount that your kind seem to think it is necessary to process and 'enrich' your food is disconcerting. By the Norns, how are you all not ill and dying? It's no wonder your life spans are so short. Whilst I may prefer fine food and clothing, the royalty of Asgard is far different from that of Midgard. We're hunters. Warriors. _Survivors._ I've spent months at a time traveling through unkind territory on my own, and one must know how to hunt and gather what is available. Midgardians live despite their realm; we live as part of ours."

He turns the information over in his head. It's weird, thinking of Loki and Thor desperate out in the middle of nowhere, living off what they can find, but at the same time it makes a bit of sense. Tony's seen how resourceful they can both be when the situation calls for it. Guess the god has a point.

"I'll have to keep that in mind. We've kind of gotten off-topic, though, because unless I'm confused, we were discussing your little drug problem."

"I hardly think I have a 'problem,' Stark." Loki flashes the phone he's been turning over in his hands. "Believe it or not I know how to use Midgardian technology, given a little time, and am perfectly capable of doing research. Your explanation of withdrawals was absolutely wretched, by the way."

"It's not exactly something most adults have to be taught, Blitzen; we kind of learn it growing up. Drugs are bad, kiddo."

The god looks decidedly unimpressed. "As I was _saying,_ I highly doubt I have any long-term addiction. The dependency makes sense given the course of events, but the chances of it being any more than that are miniscule. It's not as though I was taking it for years on end."

"How long, then?"

"Two months?"

"Fuck, so essentially ever since we'd last talked. How often were you taking it?"

"As needed."

"Which would be how much, exactly?"

The god shrugs. "Daily or so."

"Loki…" Tony groans, "you're a total idiot."

"I resent your implications that I am anything near unintelligent."

"Intelligent and smart are _very_ different things, Rudolph."

Loki sighs and stands up, stretching. "I suppose such things are relative. It was not as though I was purposefully acquiring a dependency, I was just unaware of the possibility. Such things do not exist on Asgard, at least not in common knowledge."

"You're still avoiding the reason for the _mostly,_ and you won't sidetrack me. Explain."

"I don't see why you're so concerned," the god replies, walking toward the wall of windows, "but if you're so desperate for an answer, then it's really rather simple—I wished the pain to end, and I didn't much care how."

Tony turns that over in his head, thoughts automatically searching and cross-checking data. The memories of their interactions and the god's behavior do seem to fit a pattern.

The conclusion he reaches isn't one he likes.

"Loki…" he starts, apprehensive, "are you suicidal?"

The god pauses for a moment, cocking his head, and sounds genuinely confused. "Am I what?"

"Suicidal."

What? He'd said to be direct, and Tony's not one for beating around the bush.

Loki laughs, resuming his path to the floor-to-ceiling glass. "You are truly awful at explaining Midgardian concepts. At this rate I shall need to hire an interpreter just to understand your speech." He leans an arm against the window, forehead resting on it as he gazes sightlessly out over the city, a silhouette against the clouded grey evening sky.

Tony sighs, turning to rest one leg on the back of the couch so he's facing him. "Is Asgard really all sunshine and daisies or something?" This conversation just became significantly more awkward than it already was, but now he's worried and has to ask. "I mean, do you want to kill yourself?"

The god freezes.

*'*'*

Suddenly, the memories come flooding back. Memories he'd purposefully repressed, or his mind had rewritten for his own sake—of a throne, betrayal, and the weight of Gungnir… of red eyes, and gold hair, and _I will not fight you, brother!_

Of a frozen tree, a rainbow bridge, an explosion of crystal, and a moment of flight.

Of _No, Loki._

Of realization.

…of letting go.

–––

There's not enough air in the room, and his lungs can't support what there is. It's too much, too much, _too much._

He shudders, his heart pounding in his chest.

Thor hadn't thrown him, had he? His mind had tricked him in order to protect him.

There was nothing left there, no hope or love, and no point in the monster existing. His life had only ever been a lie and he a pawn—the first piece to be sacrificed when the time came. Expendable. Useless.

Of course he was the god of lies—he himself was the ultimate lie incarnate.

A kidnapped, caged relic, too despicable for even monsters.

He can't breathe—

–––

Were the glass any weaker, it would shatter under his fingers.

_No, no no no no no—_

_Make it stop…_

A gentle hand rests on the small of his back, and a quiet voice accompanies it.

"Loki… Loki, wherever you are right now, it's not real. You're in the tower, it's only you and me, and you're safe."

Scared, can't breathe— all he feels is the warm metal slipping between his fingers. All he sees is Thor's fear, and Odin's apathy.

"C'mon, Loki, focus on me. Come back to me, man. You're alright."

He chokes and slams his fist against the window, leaning his forehead on the cool glass and trying to focus on that.

Cold. Jötunheim. Monster.

Loki makes a beeline toward the fireplace and digs his nails into his sides to keep himself relatively present. When he reaches the blessed heat he sinks to his knees, leaning forward and gasping for breath. The calming presence returns, rubbing his back and reassuring him that he's safe.

After a minute the contact disappears, much to his dismay, but returns to wrap a blanket around his shoulders.

"You're alright, Loki… breathe…"

Hard as he tries, he can't stop trembling. There's definitely a reason his mind had rewritten those final moments in his memory. He didn't— He couldn't have—

He did.

Eyes tightly shut, Loki slows his breaths back down with long-practiced technique. For a few brief moments he sinks into a light meditation to clear his mind (it's not incredibly effective, but at least takes the edge off), then sits back on his knees.

"You with me, Prancer?"

Slowly, he nods.

The mortal's voice stays quiet, calming. "Alright, just keep breathing. You're safe."

Loki rests a hand against the glass surrounding the fireplace. It's warm, but not warm enough—he wishes it were not present so that he could reach into the flame itself, although that would likely alarm the mortal.

"Flashback?"

"Y-Yeah," the god stutters with another nod.

*'*'*

Wow. Talk about striking a nerve. What the hell was that?

Is this what it looks like when he freaks out? Kind'a hard to tell when it's himself doing it, but he knows it doesn't feel all that pretty. Whatever it was the god panicked about, it was bad.

He keeps rubbing his back, trying to calm him down—it seems to be working, if a bit slowly, but progress is progress and he'll take what he can get.

"My a-apologies," the god tells him. It's more of an 'excuse me, that was impolite' sort of thing than an actual 'I'm sorry," but it doesn't matter.

"Don't apologize, that's not exactly the sort of thing you can control. Considering my line of work, you're not the first person I know to have this happen. It's alright."

Loki sighs, staring into the flame.

"Sorry, by the way, didn't mean to trigger that. I probably should have been a little more careful with phrasing."

"No," the god says, and shakes his head. "you had no way to know. I didn't— It would seem there are things I chose not to remember. That is in no way your fault."

"Still. I can be an asshat without even trying. That was kind of an invasive question."

Pulling his blanket tighter around himself, Loki shifts to sit cross-legged and rests his head in his hands. "I—…" He takes a breath, steeling himself to say something, and Tony can see him tense. "Thor didn't throw me from the Bifröst."

"What do you mean?" He's heard the story, but only pieces from Thor in passing when Loki is mentioned. Mainly that he'd smashed the bridge, Loki had been thrown off in the blast, and he hadn't been able to reach him in time.

The god lets out a resigned sigh, and looks away. "I let go."

There's a pause while Tony gets the point.

Oh.

Shit.

That explains the panic attack, then, if Loki had forced himself to forget about his own suicide attempt. So does that mean that the day they'd stood on the roof and the god had looked out forlornly over the edge, the night before they'd run into each other again in the coffee shop, the overdose, the begging… that was all honestly serious, at least to some degree? He'd said the overdose was mostly accidental, so maybe not complete conviction, but at least serious enough about it to come pretty close with it. And apparently a very nearly successful attempt on the Bifröst.

No wonder he's so fucked up about Asgard, if that's his last memory of it.

Tony bites his lip and glances sideways at the god. "And what about right now?"

"What do you mean?"

"If you had the choice," he asks, not sure if he wants to know the answer, "and were standing on the edge of a cliff, what would you do?"

Loki has to stop and consider that, and for a few minutes all that can be heard is the crackle of the fire.

"I don't know. I suppose it would depend which way the wind pushed me."

Is he seriously discussing suicide with a Norse god right now? This is so far past disconcerting that he doesn't have a word for it. Loki might, he's pretty good with that stuff, but it's not really relevant to the topic at hand.

"What if I asked you not to?"

That seems to genuinely confuse him. "Why would you?"

Really? The asshole's got some serious self-confidence issues, which is funny coming from, well, mister 'kneel before my beautiful horns.'

"Because I wouldn't want you to."

Yeah, still not getting it, is he? The look on his face is actually kind of tragic. Damn stupid gods.

"Look, man, for better or for worse, you're kind of starting to grow on me. You might be an asshole, but you're kind of like the Grinch—okay, yeah, that reference just went way over your head, sorry—the point is that you're not as bad as you let on. Fuck, this sounds really sentimental and shit. I'm bad at feelings. Moral of the story is that if that ever happened, I'd ask you to step away from the edge, okay? However convoluted it might be, you're my friend, and I want you to stick around."

Wait, is Loki crying? Granted, he's not being very obvious about it, but that looks like a tear. Damn, this is not what he's good at. Not even remotely.

If the god's not going to make a fuss over it, though, then neither will he.

Silence settles over them while Loki processes, staring toward the fire and absentmindedly toying with the edge of the blanket.

Eventually he speaks, and it's a topic change, but that seems fair enough after the rather over-emotional heart-to-heart shit that just went down. Something tells him it's not just one of them who's bad at handling emotions other than anger.

"Why didn't you?" the god asks.

"Why didn't I what?"

Loki sits up more, now that the previous conversation is over. "Call S.H.I.E.L.D." It takes a little bit of guesswork, but he brushes his fingers lightly over Tony's jaw, and looks honestly regretful.

He shrugs, watching the god's expressions shift. "Neither of us deserve second chances." Yep, there's the confusion. "That's exactly why I'm giving you one. Guys like us have gotta stick together, because nobody else will bother to give us opportunities to prove ourselves. Before you knew me? I wasn't exactly a great guy. Still not, but I'm a little better, I guess.

"Stop freaking out every time something goes wrong, okay? I mean, don't stab me or anything, it would be good if you at least _try_ to play nice, but if I wanted to hand you over, I would have done it by now."

"You are completely illogical."

Tony laughs. "Who are you, Spock?"

"I'm told that Vulcan ears are tapered; I do not believe mine are."

"Oh my god, did you just get a Star Trek reference? And he's only half-Vulcan, anyway."

The god waves a hand dismissively. "Technicalities."

He can't help but break down into laughter at the sudden ridiculous turn the conversation's taken. Soon enough Loki follows, and then they're both giggling like three-year-olds even though it wasn't even that funny.

"Stop," the god manages to choke out "that's not fair! And if I'm Spock then you're a hobbit, because you're so short you barely come up to my knee."

Tony scoffs in mock offense. "Excuse me? I'm not short, mister, you're just ridiculously tall. I'm the perfect height, because my feet just touch the ground!"

Loki starts laughing again.

See? This is why he likes hanging out with the god.

"How do you even know Tolkien anyway? I mean, I guess you could have run across Star Trek on TV, but the _Lord of the Rings_ movies are pretty visual."

The god holds up a hand and wiggles his fingers. "I can read, you know, and I made a point of learning the well-loved classics when it comes to Midgardian literature."

"You are so weird."

"What, because I like to know what's going on in the realm I inhabit?"

"Ah… yep."

"I do believe it is you who is weird."

"Asshole."

Loki rolls his eyes. "You have reverted to the same insults, I see. I'm ever so disappointed."

"Yeah, fuck you."

"No thank you," the god says with a smirk.

"Again, whose mind is in the gutter?"

That earns him an innocent smile in return.

The next hour or so is spent in generally pointless banter, insults, and witty retorts. Loki asks him about a weird glitch in the braille display on certain web pages, which ends up in a rather involved conversation as to the basic mechanics of the screen and a collaborative effort to identify and find a solution to the problem.

There's another thing he likes about Loki. He can hold his own—be it in sarcasm, science, or otherwise—and soaks up information as fast as Tony himself does. The god's learning approach is quite different, but that makes it all the more interesting to watch. Instead of understanding the underlying principles and rules and abstracting from there, he works from theoretical back down to basics.

Sometime around midnight Loki starts yawning, and he's starting to get tired himself. He's guessing neither of them have been sleeping well lately. Tony stands and stretches, then offers a hand to the god, who doesn't seem to think twice about the aid. Good. He could stand to relax a little.

When he comes back out from changing into sweats, Tony finds Loki curled up on the sofa. Come to think of it, there's been a pillow and a pile of blankets there all day.

"Have you been sleeping on the couch this whole time?"

"Well, yes," the god replies, as though it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Considering that the only bed on this floor is your own."

"I haven't exactly been using it, I figured you'd taken over."

"That would be impolite."

Tony laughs. "Half the time you're ridiculously concerned with that sort of stuff, and the other half you don't give two shits. And you call _me_ irrational."

Loki nods. "Mhmm."

"You're impossible."

"As I said before, I do try. It's good to know I've succeeded."

Rolling his eyes, he points toward the bedroom before remembering the god can't see. "Go. You get the bed tonight, I can take the couch. You're the one still a little fucked up from withdrawals."

"I cannot–"

"You can and you will, otherwise I'm going to just pass out on top of you, and that won't be comfortable for either of us. Bed, you, now. Get." He shoos at him until he moves, then falls backwards onto the sofa himself.

It really is comfortable, all things considered.

Loki finds his way into the bedroom, and they're both out cold before the clock strikes one.


	17. Admissions

_**Author's Note: **They ran away from me again._

* * *

"Why on Muspelheim are you still awake?"

He raises an eyebrow and runs a hand through his hair to tame the mess; it's not particularly effective. "You really don't know that much about me, do you, Rudol– what the hell are you doing?"

Loki's sprawled out on the sofa with a spoonful of peanut butter halfway to his mouth, and finishes the bite before speaking. Pfft. Princely manners. "What does it look like? I was hungry."

"You can't just eat it out of the jar!"

"Why not?" The god licks the back of the spoon, and raises an eyebrow. "It would seem I'm faring just fine."

He stares. "What if I wanted some?"

Scarred hazel eyes flick up in his direction. "Then I suggest you get a spoon because, in case you haven't noticed, I'm quite comfortable and have no plans of getting up."

Tony's not entirely sure how to react, so he says screw it and goes to find a spoon. Naturally, the god has taken the last clean one, and that means he has to actually _hand-wash_ something. Oh for fuck's sake.

When he returns, Loki reluctantly bothers to sit up so that they can both fit and holds the jar in his direction. Tony steals a pretty large spoonful. Except it's not really stealing, because that's _his_ to begin with. The god doesn't even bother handing it over, just takes it back once he's gotten a bite to keep eating.

"Why are _you_ awake, anyway? It's like four in the morning."

"I thought I told you—I was hungry."

"So you go for the _entire jar?"_

The god looks like him like he's crazy. "Well, yes."

"You know, most people would just takes a spoonful."

"Most people on this realm also don't have the metabolism of a god. If you're so worried, then buy another jar for yourself."

"Won't you just take it too when that one runs out?"

"Probably."

"I hate you."

Holy shit, since when could Loki do puppy-dog eyes?

The god holds a hand over his heart. "That hurts, Stark. You have mortally wounded me."

"Yeah, yeah, stop being a drama queen and give me another scoop."

With a scowl, he hands over the jar.

"Please and thank you."

"You're not even remotely welcome."

Tony just rolls his eyes. Having lost his snack, Loki holds the spoon in his mouth and procures the Rubik's cube from god knows where. Actually, that's probably the most literally the phrase has ever been used.

"Can you please remind me how the hell I ended up hanging out with you?"

The god sets the utensil on the coffee table and sits back again, kicking his feet up. "I believe you decided it would be amusing to harass a blind man."

Oh. Right. Whoops.

He laughs, scrambling the puzzle, and smiles. "I will admit that it has its merits."

"What, me saving your sorry ass?"

"Well, I was referring to the peanut butter, but I suppose that was alright too."

"You're mean!"

Loki smirks. "Believe me, it could be an awful lot worse. I've been playing nice."

"Playing nice? You knocked me out! How did you do that, by the way?"

He shifts onto his knees. "Come, I'll show you."

"I'm not that dumb, Blitzen, I'm not letting you demonstrate on me."

Pouting, the god sits back again, this time against the armrest with his legs up on the couch, effectively pinning Tony. "Fine… but you're no fun. You do, however, black out remarkably quickly. Look–" he holds up his arms, demonstrating. You loop your arms around your opponent's neck, grab your upper arm on the other side, hand on your enemy's shoulder, and move your elbows together. Simple blood choke—quick, effective, and causes minimal long-term damage. Not especially long-lasting, though, so whatever you have to do from there, do it in the next couple seconds. Better to assume they'll recover quickly than move too slowly and face the consequences."

"That's actually kind of cool. Scary that you know it, but cool."

"Oh, please. I learned that when I was barely toddling."

"Gee, thanks."

Loki crosses his legs with a laugh. "You're very welcome. Do be careful, though, it's dangerous if done incorrectly."

He rolls his eyes. "Aren't most things you do? I mean, most things you do are dangerous even if you do them right."

"That's rather the point of fighting. It's good to know how to spar without killing your opponent, though. People don't seem to like it when you slaughter their friends."

"I really hope you don't know from experience on that one."

The god gives him a guilty look.

"You did _not!"_

He shrugs. "I was young, he attacked me with the intent to seriously harm. My plan was not to kill, but I miscalculated, and caught him a little higher with my knife than I intended. You would not _believe_ the scolding I got for that."

Tony stares.

"What?"

"You _killed_ a kid, and you got a _scolding?"_

"It's not like I made him suffer more than necessary. Once I realized it was a fatal wound, I broke his spinal cord at the base of his skull. It was a quicker death than he would have found from bleeding out. "

He's not sure how to respond to that, at all, so he settles for continuing the stare. "How old were you, exactly?"

"In relation to human age?"

Tony nods.

"I'm assuming you just verified—you do remember I can't see, don't you? Anyway, I would have been… seven and a half, eight years old?"

"The _fuck?"_

"Hmm?"

"You were _seven?"_

The god shrugs. "Somewhere around there. On Midgard, you train your soldiers very late in life. The first time I killed a man I would have been six and a half."

Okay, that's so fucked up there aren't words, but definitely explains a hell of a lot about the Asgardian duo. Namely why they seem to find the whole non-lethal thing to be a waste of time. Talk about desensitizing youth—the moms who freak out over Pokémon need to get a little perspective.

"So is it normal for kids to go around offing each other for kicks, or what? No offense, man, but Asgard doesn't seem as rainbows and butterflies as I keep hearing."

"All things considered, we do have a rather long rainbow, but that's largely beside the point. No, it's not normal, and generally frowned upon, but when the situation requires…"

"Wow."

"Such is life, and death for that matter. Those who cannot fight do not survive, and the fools who dared underestimate me did not either."

He not-so-subtly scoots further away on the couch. Since Loki's apparently decided he's his new legrest it's not like the god doesn't notice, so he laughs, shoving Tony's leg (gently, thank god; said god not being Loki) with his foot.

"You mortals are so squeamish; it's funny. And, for the record, just because I have no qualms with killing, that doesn't mean I necessarily wish to go on a murder spree. I'm not a mon– I'm not evil."

"Never said you were, Data."

Loki raises an eyebrow. "Are you honestly still on the Star Trek references?"

"But I finally found something you get!"

"Stark, believe it or not, I _have_ actually seen more than one TV show."

"There's a blind joke there, but I'm not going to make it."

"Oh, shut up," he replies, "you are insufferable."

Tony laughs. "It's a talent."

*'*'*

The man truly _is_ insufferable—it's a wonder he's managed to survive in his company as long as he has. There's so much constant prattle that he's amazed the mortal can find any new combinations of words to say, but part of that is probably due to his habit of making them up when he doesn't know how to explain something. It's really quite hilarious how brilliant Stark is, yet so dreadfully awful at communication.

Absentmindedly, he twists the sides of the cube toward its solution while he thinks. Ever since a few nights ago, when the two of them had spoken, he's been trying to sort out his mind again. That memory… it's not one he would be upset to give up. More than that, though (because he's trying to put it out of his thoughts), he's trying to figure out the answer to Stark's question.

Does he want to die?

A few years ago, that would have been a resounding no. Even now, instinct tells him that he's a survivor, and of course he doesn't!

That's the trained warrior. Underneath that, well… he's tired. The truth is too much—more than he ever wanted to know—and ever since that fateful trip to Jötunheim, since he first saw that accursed blue swirl from his wrist up his arm, what ambitions he'd managed to cling to through the centuries crumbled to dust. Loki died that day, when he fell from the Bifrost, and now… now he doesn't know what he is. Or who he is, if he's anyone. He hadn't failed when he let go, because it really did cause his end.

What's left is exhaustion, and pain, and a void where hope used to lie. He lost everything that day—not just possessions or station, but everything he'd been and ever wanted to be. To be completely honest, he's been pointedly ignoring it all so that he can focus on getting through the days one at a time. Is he in denial about what happened? Yeah, probably.

All things considered, his punishment for it all (things which the Odinson would have been praised for) is what he truly wishes to forget, but he has to remember as penance.

Loki's grip on the cube tightens.

It's all too much. There's too much grief for the ghost of a memory that he's become, and it's destroying him from the inside out. The shadows that were once his closest companions are now enemies to be feared.

He sighs, tracing the scars on his lips absentmindedly.

"I would step over the edge," he says quietly.

Stark pauses in the middle of whatever tangent he's run off on now, confused by the sudden shift. "Huh?"

"Night before last, you asked what I would do were I standing at the edge of a cliff…" he says, giving his words context, and goes back to toying with the cube to keep his hands busy.

Speaking of such things is something his instincts shout against. It's so far past weakness that it doesn't even register, and would have made him an outcast if done on Asgard. At the same time, though, some dormant part of him screams _just listen to me–!_ Somehow, completely irrationally, the mortal fool has stopped counting as an immediate threat.

And to be completely honest (which is rare), he's too far gone to control himself as much as he usually would. The man has seen him weak in so many ways, yet still he acts as though they are equals. When he'd asked, it hadn't been out of mockery or pity, just… concern. As though he actually cares.

That's yet another thing about Stark which he fails to comprehend.

"…I would step over the edge," he confesses quietly.

The puzzle clicks quietly as he twists it aimlessly in the sudden expanse of silence.

What a fool he is, to think that this will in any way help, or that the mortal even truly wished to know. Will he finally realize what a coward has been sleeping under his roof?

Biting his lip, he swings his legs off the couch onto the floor so he can stand. "I should go–" He steps away, but fingers wrap around his wrist and tug gently.

"Don't."

"I–" Loki tries, but Stark cuts him off.

"C'mere," the mortal tells him, and there's a muffled sound as he pats the cushion beside him a couple times. "Sit your ass right on down."

He hesitates, conflicted, and Stark takes the opportunity to pull him back onto the sofa while he isn't resisting. Loki feels a wave of panic well up and fights to keep it controlled, wrapping his arms around himself and staring into the distance.

"If you absolutely don't want to talk, you don't have to, but at least stay. Alright?"

This wasn't meant to happen. It's not like he's actually going to try anything, well, nothing he intentionally seeks out, at least–

"It's alright to let the mask slip every once in a while, Loki. I get that you're not the sort of guy to do it easily, but try to trust me. I know from experience—trying to wear that shit twenty-four seven never works out well."

The twitch in his fingers always get worse under stress, and he feels around for the puzzle to keep his hands occupied. Stark must see his search, because he hands it to him.

"I really need to get you a more complicated one of those, for fuck's sake, how quickly are you even solving it, anyway?"

Thankful for the distraction, Loki finishes it in under a minute. The mortal whistles.

"Not bad, considering you're blind."

He scowls.

"Hush, Rudolph, you know full well I'm not going to stop harassing you about dumb shit. It's kind of my job."

–––

"By the Valkyries, I don't want to see your childish nursery!"

"Excuse me, but it is an incredibly grown-up nursery. There's tequila in _my_ bottles."

"That is a Midgardian form of alcohol, correct?"

"Oh my god, where have you been for the past decade? I mean, come on!"

"On another realm, primarily."

"Shut up, asshole, that was rhetorical. I need to take you to a club or something. We can line up shots of everything and see how long it takes to get you completely wasted."

Loki rolls his eyes, letting the mortal guide him through the halls, and tries to form a mental picture of the floor they're on.

"This is an absolutely idiotic venture."

"Dasher, I do _not_ want to find out what happens when you start getting _really_ bored after that incident with the microwave. Especially since I know that you know how to use one, which means that was on purpose."

"But fire is fun…" he complains with a pout.

"Not in the microwave, asshole! You do realize how much I depend on that to eat, right?"

"Oh, please, like you couldn't just build another. Stop complaining."

"You almost burned the kitchen down!"

"I did not, stop exaggerating. There were a couple sparks, no more than that."

"There were flames, mister blindy. And a fuckton of smoke."

He laughs. "You speak as though my nose does not function. I was well aware of the smoke, and it smelled lovely."

"You are impossible!"

"No, just highly improbable. Such are the issues of mortals attempting to understand a far superior race."

"Oh, shut it."

There are a handful of high-pitched beeps, then a lock clicks open. Once the pair of them have stepped through the door it closes behind them with a sigh, and the latch shuts. Stark tells Jarvis to black out the glass.

"Welcome to paradise, oh man of _superior race."_

Loki pointedly looks around, then back toward the mortal. "It appears to look just like the hallway. And the common room. And the kitchen. And the–"

"Yeah, yeah, I got it. I'd do a little _Masters of Disguise_ joke here, but it's kind of visual. Oh well. Come on, follow me, unless you like tripping over scrap metal and falling onto a box of nails. Ah, watch out, you kind of have to step over– yeah, there you go."

How in Valhalla does the man even concentrate in a mess such as this? His own quarters are kept neat (save for a room of organized chaos, because… chaos), with everything in its designated cabinet or on the proper shelf. It's rather a necessity if he doesn't want to poison himself with a few particularly nasty acids. He nearly did once or twice as a child, and waking up in the healing ward—especially surrounded by cranky nurses—is always irritating. Especially when his blood is trying to catch fire. Literally.

After a little more haphazard navigation, Stark shoves him rather gracelessly into a chair (it's one of the disturbing kind that is comfortable until you realize that it has wheels and _moves)._ He comments on the absurdity but the man just laughs. Rude.

"Jarvis, you get everything uploaded?"

"Indeed, sir. Would you like me to set up the software automatically?"

"That'd be awesome."

There's the hollow scrape of metal against glass, then a few variously pitched clangs as whatever Stark has shoved off the desk falls to the concrete floor.

"Right, so, Loki—welcome to your new playground."

He raises an eyebrow at the man. "I see a distinct lack of either playing or ground."

"That's 'cause you're blind. Shut up. Anyway, you've got three screens, all within easy reach—they should all be angled comfortably, but feel free to adjust them—and a tablet and stylus to your right if you need it for something. You know the setup of a normal qwerty keyboard, right?"

He barely manages a nod before the mortal is back to speaking a league a minute.

"Awesome, that makes things easier. That's naturally, in front of you where a keyboard normally goes, although if you need one I've got custom shit you can set up how you like. That goes for pretty much any of my tech, actually. I'm cool like that. No mouse or trackpad, it's all touch screen for you, which should be easier once you figure it out. There are headphones to your left if you want them.

"Now, onto the fun stuff. I was gonna have Jarvis load some textbooks and shit in Braille for you, but that's boring and slow, so I set up a basic adaptive program instead. When it starts seeming a little too difficult, that's good. Means it's figuring you out. You've got a private server, so everything is yours and yours alone."

Loki glances up at that, because he knows plenty about Stark to be completely aware that if he wants to badly enough, the man can hack pretty much anything. "Until you get curious."

"Wow, paranoid much? As long as I don't think you're doing something that will hurt yourself or others, yadda yadda… Essentially, unless you give me damn good reason to go poking around, I won't. Alright?"

That's not particularly convincing, but he'll just be careful.

"Alright, Donder, have at it. I'm probably forgetting something… eh, well, if I did, chuck something at me. _Lightly._ Preferably not something fragile."

A few moments later, there's a clatter of the man pushing aside things on his own desk, and things fall into a general silence save for the remnants of what must be that obnoxious music Stark seems so fond of filtering through headphones in his direction. He decides to use the ones left for him, and has Jarvis queue a list of songs the AI thinks he'll like.

Whether or not he'll ever admit it to the mortal, being able to use Midgardian technology this easily is incredible. The screens are large enough that he rarely runs out of space, and everything just makes _sense._ He's seen computers before, back during the battle, so he has a general idea of their normal organization, and that's enough knowledge to quickly grasp the basics.

Stark seems convinced that if he learns some of Midgard's concepts, he can—well, the mortal's wording was a bit more haphazard, but in essence apprentice to him. Loki isn't entirely sure how he feels about that idea, but if he's going to be stuck on this realm, then he may as well take advantage of this sudden wealth of information.

And what a gryphon's hoard it is—just skimming his fingers over the glass surface is nearly as good as sighted reading since it can keep up with his movements, and it's not as restricted as the small set of books translated into Braille..

He may have just found Valhalla.

Whatever bizarre thing Stark set up in place of those ridiculously slow books he'd previously been relying on is actually quite interesting, although for a little while he gets sidetracked trying to figure out how it works instead of what the AI is trying to teach him. At one point Jarvis decides to speak up to reprimand him (which scares him half to death, having not expected the still-disconcerting voice) for purposely sabotaging his progress to toy with the program. In his defense, he was never told not to.

Some of it is just confusing, though. Less so because of the mechanics, but because he can't comprehend how it would ever be useful or why it works the way it does. A few times he flicks the window over to another screen to do a bit of research online—something which has become incredibly interesting now that it's not all being read to him at an agonizingly slow pace by a voice a thousand times more disconcerting than Jarvis'. The history is far more interesting than the actual material, anyway. Why does one need to know how to solve for the values of letters (which is an idiotic thing to require, especially since letters are _not the same thing as numbers, at all,_ and what is this Midgardian obsession with trying to equate them?) or probability? The latter is especially ridiculous, since mortals have simplified the concept to such a degree that it is pointless to even bother learning their methodology. He's perfectly capable of both, and the letters-as-numbers is quite simple to solve for, but it all just feels unnecessary.

Now quantum mechanics, on the other hand…

There's something about Lie Theory which sounds intriguing at first, but turns out to be something different than the name suggests. He forgoes the topic for now in favor of looking through an overview of computer science and how AI's function on a basic level. That's another confusing thought process at first, but an interesting challenge. Whereas magic is organic and abstract, requiring an incredible amount of control whilst still allowing it to flow naturally, such programming is all strict rules in fixed patterns.

An hour or so later, Stark comes up behind him, and with the headphones on doesn't register in his peripheral. When there's a tap on his shoulder, he nearly leaps from his own skin.

_"By all the Einherjars, what in Valhalla do you need?"_ he snarls, pulling the cushioned headphones down so they lie around his neck.

"Woah, man, chill pill. I ordered Chinese—yes, I got it from the place with the weird organic shit—and you kind of missed dinner. Big time. When you get into something, you get _into_ something. It's kind of adorable."

He scowls. "What did you just call me?"

"Oh my god, your _face,_ this is priceless. Remind me to start calling you weird shit like that more often." The man falls into laughter, and Loki rolls his eyes.

"What is the hour?"

It takes a moment before Stark is able to respond without choking on his words (was his expression really _that_ amusing?). "It's almost two in the morning. Believe it or not, that all will still be there at whatever crazy time you wake up in the morning—I didn't set it up only to smash it with a hammer tomorrow… although that could be fun. Don't give me ideas."

"I didn't, you came up with that on your own, and waking up before nine is not even remotely crazy."

"Weirdo."

"I won't deny that, but I think our reasoning is significantly different. Not to mention that you are far stranger than I."

"Okay, _now_ you're just confused."

Loki cocks his head, considering the offer. "The Chinese—did you get those crunchy things?"

Stark lets out a long-suffering sigh. "Yes, I got the wonton strips."

* * *

_**Author's Note: **Loki's chokehold: en{{DOT}}wikipedia{{DOT}}org/wiki/Rear_naked_choke_


	18. Natures

The music he's been listening to quiets so Jarvis can inform him that Stark is trying to sneak up on him. Knowing his approach in advance, he waits until he can just feel the man's presence behind him, then spins on his stool (he'd insisted on something _not _on wheels) and has the mortal pinned on the ground before he knows what's happening. The yelp is rather amusing.

"I do not appreciate it when you do that," Loki informs the man calmly, "and if you do so again, I'll snap your neck. It's not as painless as you'd think."

"What, you've done it enough to know? Actually, no, don't answer that; ignorance is bliss and all that jazz."

He laughs. "You'd probably not like the answer, no." The mortal struggles fruitlessly to get away, so after a moment he takes pity and releases him.

Stark brushes himself off with an irritated sound. "Asshole. I was just coming over to snoop on what you're doing. Anything fun?"

With a lazy wave of his hand, he sends a visual recreation of his work into the air for the mortal.

There's a scuff of rubber on concrete while Stark steps around to inspect his work in interest. "What the hell is all this, anyway? I don't remember handing you an art project."

"You didn't, but your system of numbers is insufficient to represent the intricacies of this 'quantum theory' your kind seems so obsessed with." Loki turns the tablet pen lazily back and forth in this hand.

"This is supposed to be quantum mechanics? Interesting choice of material."

"It's a derivative of Yggdrasil's power—a sort of over-simplification of the forces that underlie magic."

Stark laughs. "Only you would consider quantum physics simple. That shit even confuses _me."_

"That's because your kind is too narrow-minded; any mage with a strong enough grasp of both your numbers and our magic could easily comprehend the principles of this."

"I'm digging all the doodles, Prancer, didn't know you were the type."

He can't help but roll his eyes. "Those are not idle sketches, that's the underlying principle which you moronic scientists are so intent are searching for. You're all so concerned with letters and such nonsense that you miss the obvious truth."

"And what's that? If you've actually solved this, I'm dying to know."

"What does it look like, serf? It's branches."

"…branches?" The mortal sounds unimpressed, but Loki feels the desk move slightly as he leans against it. Apparently he's at least vaguely interested, if not convinced.

With a sigh, he sketches something out and has Jarvis project it as well.

"Nice doodles, for a blind man."

"I swear to the Norns, at the rate you're continuing, you'll find this pen embedded in your eye."

"Ew."

"Then shut your mouth and just listen, or I'll go back to working and you'll never even have a hope to understand," Loki remarks with an irritated scowl. "You keep focusing on the idea of particles versus waves, but in truth they're not what you should be looking at." Trying to figure out a way to explain, he sighs, and decides he'll just have to improvise. "English is not a sufficient language to properly express the concepts, but I'll attempt it. I'm afraid it will rely a bit on crude metaphor. There's a reason that the other realms consider Yggdrasil to be a tree—what you call the 'universe' is fundamentally based upon branches of potential. Your science cannot pick up on them, because you can't view them with a microscope or detect them with instruments of measurement. Those branches are intangible, yet weave the fabric that make up the basis of an ever-growing infinity."

"Everything can be measured, if you know how to do it."

*'*'*

Loki's smile is the sort that parents give to very slow children who they're forcing themselves to be patient with. It's not a look he appreciates.

"It's not so much _measuring,_ Stark, as it is _understanding._ They're fundamentally different things that don't always walk hand-in-hand. There are some things which simply cannot be measured, because they are in a constant state of motion yet nonexistence. Others are more static than you comprehend, and some exist in a state of timelessness. I've walked such places, and they would astound you."

Damn god, acting like he knows everything. "You can't walk somewhere where there isn't time, idiot."

He sighs as though the conversation is so below him that it's physically painful to keep discussing. "And this is where your language breaks down—it is impossible to express a lack of time. Even if I were able to access the Allspeak, the concept doesn't translate because your thoughts are tied so firmly to language that you are incapable of understanding."

"Try me."

"There _aren't words!_ Those drawings and symbols? That is the closest I can come to put any of this into a human context. All of your searches for 'god particles' and a 'unified theory' and such are _impossible_ for you to succeed in, because you are trained from birth to be blind to it!"

"Funny, coming from a blind guy."

Okay, wow, maybe not the best time for that. The god is approaching murderous rage, judging from the intensity of his (slightly misaimed) glare.

"What you call 'quantum theory' is so much more than you can comprehend. I'm not spending days trying to figure it out, I'm trying to come up with a way to simplify it such that it will give your kind at least a glimpse into understanding! Would you like to see what a written representation would be?" Without waiting for an answer Loki turns back to his desk with a vehemence that he's never seen before, in a god or otherwise.

*'*'*

At some point, Stark wanders away. That's fine, because this is going to take hours to complete—it would be hard enough _with_ his sight, considering that it's time-based and three dimensional. Even with what he's managed it's still ridiculously oversimplified, but it will serve his purposes.

*'*'*

When Loki finally calls him back over (seriously, how much did he have to write?), he's resting his chin on his hand and watching him with a disconcertingly calm gaze. In a couple gestures, his work shimmers to life in the air.

_"Holy mother of god,_ what the everliving _fuck_ is that?"

The god's expression doesn't change. _"That,"_ he explains with poorly-veiled impatience, "Is a poor recreation of what you seek. Now do you see why it's a bit difficult to express it in English?"

"Rudolph, I don't even know what I'm looking at here."

"Exactly."

Whatever it is doesn't make any sense—it only makes his head hurt.

"And this," Loki continues, "is why we are so fundamentally different."

Tony just settles for watching the discomforting thing that the god's drawn. It's probably less confusing when the guy can actually see what he's doing, but still.

"The only way for you to ever comprehend that is to learn magecraft and speak with someone who uses the Allspeak."

Oh, hey, that catches his attention. "I can learn magic and shit?" He's never liked magic, because it's always been a nuisance, but the idea that humans could actually do it is intriguing. Plus he's dying to know how magic and science relate, because they obviously do. Just because Loki says it can't be done doesn't mean that there really isn't a way to express this shit with numbers. _Everything_ can be expressed with numbers if it exists.

"Theoretically, yes." Why does he sound so exasperated? It's a valid question! "However, I do not know of any mages suited to deal with the… _intricacies_ of training a mortal."

"So, us puny humans are _capable,_ but nobody can actually teach us. Dumb."

Loki raises an eyebrow. "Excuse me, but, had I have my magic, I am completely capable of training a mortal. I simply don't take apprentices."

He can't help but laugh. "That is so stereotypically _you_ that it's funny."

"Apprentices are nuisances who are dangers to society and to themselves. I almost feel sorry for my mentor, but he was rude and unpersonable."

"Right. Because that's not calling the kettle black or anything."

"The only reason he took me is because I was a prince and could have made his life miserable. Not that I didn't anyway, but nonetheless. There's a reason why magecraft has never been common in human society, because your bodies are too weak to handle mishaps. If your concentration breaks, even for a moment, it could very easily introduce you to the most painful death imaginable."

"And that, dear Comet," Tony helpfully informs him, "is why you should always wear your seatbelt when burning down cities."

"I hope you realize that were you to attempt to light a match, you could just as easily burn yourself from the inside out. Magic is dangerous."

"What, you've set yourself on fire before? I suppose that would explain a few things. Like the crazy."

With a roll of his eyes and a sigh, Loki turns around and pulls up the back of his shirt to reveal a scar starting at his waist that runs up his spine and branches out across his shoulder blades like a tree. He glances over his shoulder, slightly amused.

"Damn, that's pretty impressive," Tony remarks. "What happened, tried to set Thor's hair on fire?"

For a moment he remembers the whole family/not-family shit and worries that it might not have been the best question, but the god laughs and turns back around, expression just the tiniest bit guilty. "Not that time."

"Wait, you actually _did_ that?"

"It was a good laugh. And why is your first assumption always that I set something on fire?"

"Ah, microwave?"

"Are you really still sore over that? I did apologize. Possibly not sincerely, but I did apologize." He tosses the tablet pen onto the desk and leans back against it. "I hadn't gotten that far into my studies yet, anyway. I was a bit overeager as a child, and decided that whilst the idiots three were out bashing each other in the head, I wanted to figure out what all the dusty old books were talking about. There's a reason why most people start out under another mage's guidance—not knowing what you're up against doesn't often end merrily. The mishap sent me to the healing ward for a week or so, but were you or another mortal to make such a mistake, you'd be dust before anyone even noticed. Yggdrasil does not like to be tampered with."

"I'm trying to picture you as a hyper little kid. It's not working."

Loki smirks. "That day taught me a good deal about patience. The scar still burns a bit if I use certain forms or amounts of magic, which only serves to reinforce the lesson. I've always been one to learn the hard way."

"Really? I hadn't noticed," he replies sarcastically.

"Oh, shut your mouth and let me get back to my work. You're just becoming progressively irritating. For you, that's saying something."

*'*'*

Regardless of the god's general disdain for 'Midgardian overly-complicated simplification,' he's pretty damn clever at figuring shit out. There tend to be weird symbols thrown in, but it's a start.

As it so happens, he's also pretty good at working with metal—which Tony learns a few days later is because he knows how to forge his own blades—and with a little bit (lot) of coaxing, he agrees to help with some assorted projects and take over development of the Braille phone.

That's a hell of a thing to watch.

Loki can get just as ridiculously focused as he himself can, but god forbid he gets frustrated with something. That's always terrifying. Seeing his process is pretty cool, too, because like he'd noticed before, it's definitely not how most people work. He's totally happy making up his own angles to approach things from, and to be honest, Tony's not inclined to tell him how humans generally look at things because this is intriguing. He should have found an Asgardian helper sooner, because they actually make a pretty good team. For the most part, when one of them gets stuck, the other can either figure it out or set them down the right path.

Everything seems like it's finally looking up.

–––

After a long night in the workshop, Tony decides that Star Wars sounds like a great idea. It's been a while since he's seen it, and his brain is tired, so why the hell not? Everyone loves lightsabers. By now he can pretty much quote the entire movie, and it's probably a good thing he's alone when he kicks back and turns it on, because it's late and he's damn well going to sing along to the Imperial March if he wants to.

Jarvis turns down the lights, and a familiar starfield comes to life on the wall. He sinks down into the cushions of an old, slightly tattered sofa that he's had for who knows how long—it kind of just got moved with his equipment when he brought stuff into the tower. That was probably Pepper, since she seems determined not to let him destroy any more nice furniture when he's got engine grease on his hands, but despite the fact that it's a little over-used, it's plenty comfortable after standing on concrete for a few hours.

Loki wanders into the workshop around the point that Luke's fighting with Yoda over methodology, wearing a charcoal hoodie and black sweats.

"You didn't tell me you were watching Star Wars."

He raises an eyebrow. "Didn't know you'd want to watch, and didn't know where you were. Where were you, anyway?"

The god's raven hair is unusually unkempt, just thrown up into a sloppy ponytail, in what is usually more his bedhead look (which is the funniest thing ever, because on the rare occasions that he actually gets up early to witness it, Loki is _so_ not a morning person). He drops down beside him on the couch, taking a sip from his water bottle.

"Training room."

Huh? "How did you know we have a training room? Why the hell were you even hanging out in the training room?"

"It's funny, how many things one can learn from an ever-present computer. And what do you think I was doing, eating cupcakes?" He wipes a drip of water off his lip with his thumb and watches him (well, in the weird blind-gaze-in-his-direction sort of way) with amusement.

"Ha ha, very funny."

Loki rolls his eyes. "I spent eight weeks in hiding with barely any food, was bedridden for days, and have done little more than sit around reading for the past couple months. I've become ridiculously out-of-shape. By the way, your equipment is pathetic—you may wish to invest in more durable training dummies."

Oh for fuck's sake. "Just how much carnage should I be expecting?"

He shrugs, and takes another sip of water. "As I said, I'm out of form, so the walls are still standing."

"That's not comforting."

The god lays his head back on the couch and closes his eyes. "Play. I want to make fun of my namesake."

That makes him pause. "Namesake?"

"Luke Skywalker, who follows the trickster archetype," he replies, holding out one hand, then does the same with the other like a scale, "Loki Skytreader, trickster god." Said god smirks. "Do you see the resemblance? I suppose Anakin's story may fall in line slightly more, but they're both trickster Skywalkers who are masters of magic, etc. If you care to start dissecting the characters' lives and the plot, they follow my own."

Tony thinks on that a minute, running through the movies in his head. "Huh."

"The gods are never truly forgotten, Stark, even if your kind does not realize it."

After a bit of irritated prompting, he backs up the movie to the beginning of the scene and restarts it.

–––

Okay, he'll admit it—he's a little concerned for the state of the gym. When the movie finishes and Loki heads off to get a shower or whatever he does, Tony decides to go check it out. If it looks like a bomb's gone off in there, that'll take a bit more explanation than 'I had an accident in the workshop' like he used for the whole broken jaw incident. He might be able to say he was testing an autonomous suit and things went haywire? It'd be a stretch, but so are most things he does.

It's with a bit of hesitation that he swipes his card for the door, because god knows what he'll find, but whatever he's expecting isn't it. If anything, the room is cleaner than he last saw it. Sure, there are a few mutilated and beheaded dummies, like the god had implied, but that's really it.

"Jarvis, he wasn't lying, was he?"

The AI confirms that he had, in fact, been in here training, and had not caused undue harm to anyone or anything. Which is weird. Well, curiosity killed the Stark, so when he's in his room later (the god seems to prefer the same floor, but Tony prefers his bed, so he's refurnished another room for him) he has Jarvis pull up the video feed from earlier that day.

A projection lights up the wall across from his bed, where he reclines with a few blankets because he's too lazy to turn down the comforter.

_Holy. Fuck._

There are a few minutes of standard warm-up and shit, he beats the crap out of the dummies, but then within a few minutes he moves out to the center of the room where there's plenty of space and mats laid out, and just…

Loki makes Natasha's practice routines look like a kindergartener's.

Even blind, the sheer amount of precision and control is incredible (terrifying), and it's starting to make sense how he did the weird tree-flip-thing in the park and keeps knocking Tony down and out without a second thought. Also the fact that he'd at least made it a few minutes when he was fighting the monster things before Tony had to cover his ass so he could get out of there without too many cuts and bruises.

Three thousand years of training in a culture where fighting is prized above all else.

Right.

Loki is a living, breathing weapon. Kicks, punches, rolls, flips, spins—it's practically a (really deadly) dance. The sudden apprehension that someone like _that_ is close enough nearby to watch movies and eat chinese food with makes his blood run cold in fear for a few moments, because _shit._

The footage is ridiculously long, so he has Jarvis fast-forward to get a general overview of how the god trains, because it's actually kind of fascinating. Again, it's completely different from a human approach, and that once again reminds him that Loki isn't just a guy he met in the park. He's alien, in more ways than he can count.

Slightly disturbingly, the god never stops for a break or to grab a drink of water, just keeps going for hours. Literally. His actions and shit change, but he just keeps training. And training. And training.

The trickster holds an intensity that he doesn't see often in people, but it's more the sheer amount of energy and power that amazes him. It's as though the time away from practicing didn't make him fall back, just shoved him forward. Toward the last hour it does slowly start to fade _(finally)_, but he just keeps going until he's breathing hard and his limbs are trembling. Closing his eyes and gritting his teeth, he seems to steel himself, and then he goes back to work.

Seventeen minutes later, Loki falls to his knees in exhaustion and sits there, shaking and gasping for air.

He tries to drag himself back to his feet, but that plan fails quite miserably so he curls up on the floor instead until he regains enough energy to move.

Well damn.

Is everyone on Asgard this hardcore? He doesn't remember Thor working out this much, but then again the two of them are like night and day. Tony's not entirely sure which is which though.

Just when he's starting to think Loki decided to take a nap, the god stumbles to his feet and wanders off to find water.

The gym seems fine. Loki, on the other hand…

–––

Over the following week, the god seems to spend more and more time in the training rooms, and shows up more often in sweatpants than he's ever seen previously. On the occasions that Tony pulls up the video, they all end the same.

Sunday evening he decides to check in on the trickster in person, and heads down to see how he's doing. It turns out that he's so intent on his practice that he doesn't even notice his presence, so Tony stands in the doorway watching. Seeing it this close up is even scarier than it was on tape.

When the god has worked himself to the ground again, he decides to make his presence known.

"Damn, Loki, you always work this hard when you come down here, or is this you trying to impress me?"

He jerks up to attention, turning quickly to face Tony.

"H-how long 've you been there?"

"Long enough to realize I shouldn't get in your way when you're pissed, although I sort of already knew that. Is there a reason you like to wear yourself out so much?"

Loki looks toward him for a few moments, stands on shaky legs, and walks away without responding.

–––

There's no mention of it for another day, so Tony confronts him on it Tuesday evening when they're both hanging out on the couch. He's reading a pretty interesting dissertation on fluid dynamics, and Loki is sitting on the armrest changing out a string that had broken earlier in the day with practiced movements that he'll have to ask about later.

"So, Rudolph," he starts, only to get interrupted.

"You're using the tone of voice you always do when you're planning to reprimand me on something or another."

"When have I ever reprimanded you?"

Loki scowls.

"Anyway, _not_ reprimanding you, just asking, but what's the whole thing in the gym about? I know it's not the only time; Jarvis tells me things."

"I don't see why it matters."

He crosses his arms, after setting the tablet he's been using aside. "I'm giving you a look right now."

"Can't see it, so it doesn't count."

"Stop stalling and answer the question."

With a sigh, the trickster gently rests his violin back in its case. "Stark, you seem to forget all too easily—I'm not like you. I'm not mortal, I'm not even just a god, I'm an agent of chaos. My role in Yggdrasil is to bring change, and without it, stir crazy isn't a strong enough word to describe it, because it's part of me in a way that you can't understand without first understanding the cycle of Ragnarök. I don't tend to outwardly express such things, but the longer I'm trapped here, the more energy builds up inside me, until I can hardly breathe under the force of it. Exercising my mind is well and good—and something I enjoy doing—but this is a cage for me. As well-kept and comfortable as your tower may be, it's still a cage. Everything is static, constant, and whilst I fear going out where I could be found, being trapped here is driving me mad.

"So yes, I'm overworking myself, but it's because it's the best I can do to ease the building pressure. I've never been able to explain it properly, but the longer I remain well-behaved and _normal,_ the more the energy grows until I'm an anxious, panicked wreck whose sole desire is to take down a city block's worth of calm or more, depending upon how long I hold it back. I used to travel out into the woods if it got bad enough back on Asgard, but in the heart of the city there's nowhere safe to let go. I've been here nearing a year, without any release. There's a reason why I've been getting more reckless lately, and it's not really boredom—it's the slow build toward mania."

He looks down, resting an elbow on his leg and his forehead on his hand.

"The incident with the microwave? That's something I'm naturally inclined to do. I– you know how it feels when you're just really need to _move,_ but have to sit through a lecture or the like?"

Tony nods, as some of the pieces he's been missing in the puzzle that is Loki are slowly hinted at. "You just described me at meetings perfectly."

"Has it ever built to a point that it practically claws at your chest, and you get jumpy?"

That takes a second to think back on, but yeah, a couple times. He tells the god as much.

"Now imagine that," he responds, "increasing exponentially as time wears on, for months, except you're still stuck in the same meeting. That's what it's like."

There's something like an edge of desperation in the god's voice, as though he's tried to explain this time and again without anyone understanding, and things fit together just a tiny bit—why Loki's been so paranoid about everything, why he's always fidgeting just slightly and can't sit still, why the withdrawals were so violent, and why what seems mostly like depression is turning toward dormant suicidal tendencies. Add to that the still-lurking aftereffects of the drug dependencies that can only worsen that, and you have one _very_ unstable god.

He gets the ridiculous amount exercise more now, too, because what's the instinct he gets when that fidgety, anxious feeling creeps on himself, and gets bad enough?

To run, to fight, and to scream at the world.

* * *

**Author's Note: ** Oh hey, there's art, what?  
aconitine-apothecary{{DOT}}tumblr{{DOT}}com/post/79513594353


	19. Advice

_"Holy shit–!"_

Loki laughs, sidestepping the mortal's next attack.

"What _was_ that, even?"

"Getting beaten by a blind man, Stark; I'm disappointed." It's not even that difficult, all things considered, because his attacks are so predictable. "Stop projecting your movements and _fight_ me!"

There's a quiet metallic clang alerting him to the man's next step, so he uses the moment while he's pulling back for the swing to pounce. They both go down, rolling sideways across the floor until Loki braces himself with his hands and kicks the mortal up and over his shoulder to finish by following through the momentum and ending up back on his knees. Catching the boot aimed at his head is an easy matter.

"Really? My face? That's quite poor manners." A twist of his wrist and Stark goes down hard.

This time he doesn't get up right away, so Loki stands and stretches.

"You're quite boring to fight. The Widow seems a bit more worthwhile an opponent, but I've never actually sparred with her. It would certainly be interesting. She's still too weak to do any real damage, but I'd assume she could get in a few hits since I can't see and might be resourceful enough to find another way of bringing me to the ground."

"I hate you…" Stark mumbles, finally climbing to his feet.

"The feeling is mutual."

It's the mortal who'd asked to practice together for a little while today, in a request for pointers, so it's not really his own fault that the man has lost so poorly (for the seventh time, because he's nothing if not stubborn). At least he's figured out that in a space as quiet and enclosed as the training room, thrusters practically scream 'Here I am,' and the whine of recharging his repulsors do the same to a more temporary degree. That means that things quickly devolve into basic hand-to-hand combat, which is a nice challenge for Loki, but still ends poorly for Stark.

"Now," he says, throwing a water bottle in the man's general direction, hoping he either catches it or likes cleaning up a mess, because it wasn't exactly a light toss and the bottles are thin, "may I return to training or do you prefer me to throw you around like a two-century-old's rag doll a little more?"

"I'm concerned for anyone two hundred years old who still has a doll."

"You are insufferable."

"I thought that you were going to, you know, give me pointers or something. Not beat me to a pulp."

Lying down on a wooden bench near the wall, he smirks. "I've always been one to advocate learning from experience. You'd like a lesson in not getting embarrassed even whilst wearing that foil contraption? Don't fight me."

"Did you just call my suit foil?"

"It's practically as thin. My _sincerest_ apologies for any dents or broken pieces, I was trying to be gentle."

The scowl in Stark's voice is practically audible. "Well guess who's going to be hammering them out later?"

"You."

"You're the one who made them!"

He laughs. "If a man were to step onto the tracks in a subway station, would he be able to reasonably say it was the train's fault?"

"Since when are you a train?"

"I'm not," the god replies with a roll of his eyes, "but you knew full well what I'm capable of."

To be fair, he really had been trying to go easy on the mortal, but the blindness means that it's harder to judge where he's aiming and he compensates by adding speed and power to his attacks. Stark is by no means a poor fighter, especially by Midgardian standards, but he just hasn't had the same extent of training that Loki himself has.

After a pause, the other speaks up again.

"So, if this is you going easy on me while you're blind, did you just totally say fuck it during the battle, or what?"

Loki glances over toward him. "Do you remember what you said to me, when we met here so long ago?"

"Ah… go away, please and thank you?"

Apparently not, then. _Mortals._

"You told me I'd managed to piss off every last one of the Avengers, and that there was no version where I came out on top. Do you honestly think me so dull as to not have been aware of that?"

"So, what, you threw it on purpose?"

He scoffs. "Oh, no, of course not—I just didn't really care. In honesty, I would have been fine at that point whether Midgard fell or not, I just wanted to ensure that He didn't obtain the Tesseract."

"Why's that?"

"You truly are an idiot," Loki says with a long-suffering sigh. "The Tesseract is useless as a weapon, it's barely more than a plaything. It's a doorway, though, and one that could have led Him to somewhere, and more importantly some_thing_ that I'd really rather it not."

"Thanks for worrying about Earth, by the way."

"Oh, for the Valkyries' sakes. If He'd obtained the Infinity Gauntlet—and he still could—you would have greatly wished I'd conquered your realm. I wouldn't have gotten the throne anyway, He'd not have actually given it to me, but I knew that. Since the only end with him was death, my plan was to lead the fleet to Midgard, gather a few to aid me—my thanks for that, by the way—move the Tesseract from his reach, and then run for my life. I succeeded in three of the four, which I suppose is a decent achievement."

"Wait, so you mean you really did throw the fight on purpose?"

"Of course I did, you idiot." He's run out of water and it's hard to drink lying down anyway, so Loki gets up and finds his way to the locker in the corner that someone (he's assuming Stark) has stuffed with snacks. The mortal keeps complaining about his food disappearing, but it really shouldn't surprise him so much. "Did you honestly believe that a couple children who've only been fighting for a decade or so at most could so simply take down a god? If I'd wanted to conquer your planet I would have been far more subtle about it, and you'd have been able to do nothing. Giving you warning and then opening a rather small portal right over your heads seems a little ridiculous, does it not? The only one I had to actually fight was the Odinson." He shudders at the name, pushing back memories. That stupid, blind, witless _cruel_ not-brother–

No. His thoughts are better used on important matters.

"I will admit, however, that the suit you called was a bit of a surprise."

"Wait, you threw me out a window thinking I'd actually die?"

Loki shrugs. It's not like he'd had any ties to this realm at that point, nor the people on it. He was battling, they attacked, he retaliated. It's simple.

"You do not want to be near me when I actually fight, believe me."

"Why's that? Magic and shit?"

He lays back down on the bench with his snack. "No, at least not entirely; more because everything you've seen of me? The control and composure? I need none of that. That's really your problem, anyway."

"What is?"

"You think too much," the god replies. "Thought is well and good, and at times can be useful, but to truly become dangerous you must let go of it and trust your instincts."

"The hell do you think I'm doing?"

Mortals. Thinking they know everything.

"I don't mean like that; I mean giving in to them completely. Willingly forfeiting control, and becoming a creature of rage with a thirst for blood. If you wish to fight in the most lethal and terrifying way, you have to give up your humanity. When you stand among the fallen and let it come filtering back, you should fear your own actions. You wish to have a lesson in true fighting? Sparring is good practice, but the ultimate secret is to abandon yourself and become no more than a feral creature. That is why you should run, if I ever truly let go—because Loki as you know me stops existing."

A slight whine and a couple metallic clicks let him know that Stark's actually bothered to remove his helmet.

"I'll keep that in mind."

He turns his head in the direction of the noise, for a few minutes just considering the utter improbability of this happening. Ignoring everything that happened before he wound up here in the tower half-dead, even the change from that is absurd. Had he enjoyed the mortal's company on occasion? He won't deny it, because finally finding someone who can keep up with him is a miracle, but it's not something he actively sought out until he was in hiding. Now it's just normal, a constant that he's comfortable with. Perhaps the main difference between Stark and the other people he's known in the past is that even when he doesn't understand something—be it an academic matter, a theoretical concept, or just something about himself—he's willing to try. Most people are too impatient, but the mortal… he isn't sure quite what the word is, but he cares. Just in general, he cares about understanding and learning about anything he can get his hands on. It's not curiosity, although he has that in spades, but his interest in Yggdrasil (or the universe, as he's so convinced She should be called) is on par with his own. It's kind of funny, really, considering the man's reputation as a selfish, shallow billionaire. The first and last are true, but to call Stark shallow is an obvious falsity.

Possibly the issue is that his interest is like a switch—either he doesn't care at all, or cares to the extent that he'll not let go of something, spending an eternity coming to know and understand even the tiniest pieces of it.

Loki's not entirely sure what that means about the man's interest in himself, but being treated as an equal is nice.

_…he really wants to reach out, grip Yggdrasil's might once more, and let the city cower in fear at her power._

The god's eyes linger in the mortal's direction for a few minutes, then he stands and goes to gather his things.

*'*'*

Now that Loki's explained things to him and he knows what to look for, it's not hard to spot the excess energy that fills the trickster to the brim. He's wound tighter than a spring, but with how much control he's wrapped himself in it's not something that stands out if you don't know about it. It's easy to mistake for irritating habits or a normal amount of restlessness.

Tony's really starting to wonder just how much stress he's under, though, because the look in his eyes is getting just a tiny bit scarier.

Rubber scuffs against concrete as the god paces the length of the living room next to the glass wall, and were it not for the slowly-growing understanding, he'd yell at him and tell him to quit freaking him out. When he glances up at him, Loki's teeth are gritted and he looks pretty irritable. Not even going to try, then.

The restlessness seems to have been coming and going—never completely gone, but definitely better at times than others. Right now is on the less happier end of things.

"Hey, Lo–"

_"Shut up,"_ the god snaps before he can even finish his name.

Okay, not happy end of things at all. He does as he's told. Apparently it's too late, because after about thirty seconds of tense silence broken up by Loki's footsteps, the god decides to go off on a rant.

It's a long one, so convoluted he can't keep track of what's going on, and all he knows is that there's lots of swearing in Asgardian and a minute or two of him shouting at Jarvis about his bathwater not staying hot enough.

Sometime in the middle of complaints about how absolutely awful the English language is for expressing 'mature' concepts (and Tony would make a joke about that, but he can't get a word in edgewise even if he _did_ have a deathwish), the elevator door slides open. He jumps a little, but Loki goes into full battle mode, sinking into a defensive stance, and _where the hell does he keep all these knives?_

Tony doesn't bother getting up, because he's comfortable lying on the sofa thank you very much, and just waves. "Hey, Pep. Didn't know you were coming by."

She looks slightly alarmed by the fact that the god is pissed and, well, literally snarling at her.

"I thought you said he was under control."

Glancing back at Loki, he sighs. "He is."

"That's not very convincing."

"Eh, whatever. Nice to see you; it's been boring without you around. Death threats are fun and all, but I've missed having someone who doesn't burn everything when they try to cook."

"I see you haven't changed since the last time you wandered outside." With a composure that only Pepper could manage, she sits in the chair across from him and laughs. He can tell that she's on edge, but she hides it well.

"Surprised you turned up—after all this time I was starting to think you'd decided to stay completely out of shit."

She shakes her head. "Tony, with you, that's impossible."

Did she get a haircut? Or a new shirt or whatever? There's something different, and he can't quite place it.

"I'm not sure whether to be flattered or offended by that. Loki, stop foaming at the mouth already; you'll know if she wants to hurt you because she'll take me out first. Either go chill somewhere else or get your ass down here and act like you don't have rabies for a few minutes." Tony sits up and moves to the left side of the suede sofa, patting the cream colored cushion beside him.

Pepper looks on while he waits for the god to make up his mind. He already knows which choice he'll make, it's just a matter of time before he– Ha. Tony knew it.

With a good deal of wariness and a persisting defensive manner, Loki makes his way to the couch and sits beside him, knees pulled up. Normally he'd harass the trickster for putting his shoes on the nice white cushions, but it's not like they're dirty since he hasn't gone outside, and the signs he's learned to read all indicate that the trickster is perched in the way he is so he can escape quickly if necessary.

Or fight.

Fighting's probably more likely, knowing the state the god's in right now.

"Right, so you've never seen Loki before, right? I mean besides the time you walked in on us in bed together, which was a little awkward."

The god's eyes snap over in his direction.

"Oh, yeah… you were kind of out cold for that one. Christmas morning, she showed up and got a surprise. That surprise being you."

"Yes, that was a fantastic Christmas gift, Tony," she remarks, voice dripping with sarcasm.

He looks at her guiltily for a moment. It really does make him feel bad, knowing that he ruined the holidays for her in favor of sitting in bed with a super-villain. Kind of an asshole move, however unplanned.

"Sorry about that. Let's start over. Good? Good. Pepper, this is Loki," he informs her, patting the god's arm regardless of the fact that it's pretty obvious who he's talking about—the gesture's more for him than it is for her. A subtle attempt to reassure Loki that there's no danger. "God of asshattery and setting shit on fire. Loki, meet Pepper, my awesome CEO and… whatever she is. Girlfriend-y thing."

She raises an eyebrow.

"What? I'm bad with words, you know that, and I'm not exactly sure what to call our thing." Tony looks over at the trickster, to add as an aside, "Essentially, she and I have a thing. Beyond that, I suck at words." He turns back to Pepper. "I promise he'll grow on you, he's just a stubborn ass."

Loki shoots him a look.

"What? It's true! Stop sulking and act like a grown adult. Anyway, Pep, how are things going since we got dinner last week?"

"Predictable—there are grumpy clients with pointless complaints, three different offices that want me to see them at the same time tomorrow morning, and Happy is a little too enthusiastic about his security position."

"Oh god, is he still doing the badge thing?"

"Yep. Although I've gotta admit that he's got good instincts. However ridiculous he may act at the time, he can usually tell when someone's fishy."

"Well, I guess that's good. He goes a little overboard but his heart's in the right place. Specifically, in his chest, and not torn out by some crazy villain guy."

The trickster makes a face that he can't quite interpret, but decides to ignore for now. The number of weird looks he gets is so huge a number that he's stopped trying to figure out what the hell they mean. Loki's still antsy as hell, and produces the Rubik's cube again (apparently it's become his go-to solution for discomfort and boredom). Tony steals it for a moment, earning a noise of irritation from the god, and with a wink to Pepper flips one of the pieces so it's unsolvable. After scrambling it, he hands it back, smirking.

She rolls her eyes, but watches them with a curious gaze for a few moments. "I'm slightly surprised that the two of you haven't torn each other's throats out yet. Not saying that I want you to, but the fact that you haven't is impressive."

"I have this thing about never doing what's expected. Can't have people thinking I'm normal," Tony replies with a cocky shrug.

Turning her attention to the god, she smiles politely. "How are you, Loki?"

Well, then. Looks like it was her turn to exceed expectations.

He seems confused by the sudden shift in conversation, but sits up a bit and pulls together a bit more composure. Not that he'd been without before; it was just more obvious that he had been on edge.

"I fair adequately."

That's as much as she gets out of him, but it's a start, and at least he was cordial.

The trio end up watching a movie, and Pepper finds an air popper somewhere to makes actual, fantastic popcorn. Tony, of course, ends up in the middle of the couch holding said popcorn (which he is just fine with), with Pepper on his left and Loki on his right. As time wears on, the god slowly relaxes and even ends up sharing a little of the popcorn when he thinks nobody's looking. It's kind of hard for him to tell when they're not, though, given the blindness, and Tony ends up sneaking him handfuls when Pepper's engrossed in the plot. The trickster gives what could almost be mistaken for a tiny smile of gratitude.

Around halfway through the movie Pepper rests her head on his shoulder, and he smiles. Sitting here, with some mostly dumb movie playing and the two of them beside him, is the most content he's been in a while. It's almost a slice of normalcy.

Loki curls up with his head on the armrest and eyes closed, listening to the plot. Part of his mind comments on how weird this all still is, but the rest of him drowns it out with _holy shit did you actually find someone you (relatively, with a few broken bones and drug problems) get along with?_

That makes five people he can reasonably stand—Pepper of course, Rhodey, Happy, Bruce, and Loki. He guesses Harley too, to an extent, but the kid's kind of a ways away and they don't really keep in touch. Plus he's like ten years old, so he doesn't know if that completely counts.

Holy mother of god, he actually has, like, _friends._ As in multiple. As in enough people to go and, well, what do people do with friends? Do that, whatever 'that' is.

Granted, Loki kind of throws a wrench in things considering the whole won't-leave-the-tower-and-is-a-wanted-criminal issue, but still. It's the thought that counts, right? Plus he's got a lab buddy and a workshop buddy who can both talk smart-people language.

One of them has relatively frequent urges to kill him slowly and painfully, but still. Right now Loki's sort of dozing on the couch, and isn't trying to torture him, so that part doesn't count.

* * *

**Author's Note: **If you want to check out a couple things I use in my headcanon to develop Loki's fighting style, these are the two I've specifically been watching a bit of recently:  
Krav Maga — youtu{{DOT}}be/IjmBPFPTq-g  
Capoeira (slightly canonical) — youtu{{DOT}}be/2q3Z7UQZnBY


	20. Return

The next morning Tony finds Loki outside on the balcony, leaning on the glass railing overlooking the city. His hair's gotten long—ridiculously so, falling at his shoulderblades. He almost always wears it in a ponytail now. Eyes closed and head tilted up to meet the sunlight, he's singing quietly to himself. It's probably the most peaceful he's seen the god in months.

_Og tíminn líður þá breytist svo margt  
__sem aldrei neinn hafði fyrir séð…_

The railing bows just slightly when he rests his weight against it, and Loki pauses for a moment to turn his head in his direction.

"Good morning."

"Morning, asshole."

The god raises an eyebrow with an amused smile. "Speaking to yourself is a sign of insanity, you know."

Tony scowls. "You're mean."

"What did I just say?"

He hits Loki's shoulder lightly. "Cut it out."

They stand side by side, gazing out into the distance. It's just on the more bearable side of cold, this high up in March, the sort that nips at your ears and nose but despite that fact is somewhat pleasant.

"I am surprised to see you up so early."

Without meaning to he yawns, and the god laughs.

"Thinking about taking the new suit out for a test flight. I'd ask if you wanted to see, but I have this nagging feeling that might be difficult for you."

"Oh, do stop talking; it's unbecoming of you. Where is your, ah, what did you call her? 'Girlfriend-y thing'?"

He huffs and crosses his arms. "It was late, okay? Besides, introducing your girlfriend to your psycho alien supervillain housemate isn't something that most people have to worry about doing."

"Which is exactly why I don't invite my girlfriend over, so I don't have to introduce her to y–"

"Wait," Tony interrupts, _"You_ have a girlfriend?"

He laughs. "Wife."

When he just stands there dumbfounded, Loki tilts his head. "Ex-wife, actually."

"No, no, no, back up, because I thought I just heard you say that you got _married."_

The god responds with a shrug. "Political marriages are not uncommon in the other realms. Asgard was as war with Vanaheim, and the Allfather offered my hand to Sigyn to bring about peace. She was a kind girl, and we grew to be friends, but we were never in love. When enough time had passed to do so safely we divorced, that she could be with her actual lover and I was no longer tied down in such a fashion."

A moment passes, and then Tony breaks down into laughter.

_"You,"_ he snickers, "got _married."_

With a long-suffering eye-roll, Loki shoves him lightly. "Shut up."

"Oh my god, now all I can think of is you in a penguin suit vowing to love her for_ever_ and _ever,_ 'til Loki does us part," Tony says, still laughing, making his voice as girly as possible.

"You do realize that we don't have Christian weddings, do you not? Considering the distinct lack of Christianity? There aren't any suits, either. Think ceremonial armor, handfasting, and swords. No vows to love, either, not in a marriage like that, just protection and providing for her."

"Sounds like more fun than our shit, then, if there are swords. Do you get to stab people?"

"I believe that is generally frowned upon at a wedding."

"Lame. And Pepper's making breakfast, since that's what you were originally asking about. We're going to have, like, an actual meal instead of leftover pizza."

The god perks up at that. "What sort of breakfast?"

"The kind that's warm. Beyond that, no idea."

"I suppose that is too rare to pass up. I'll be down in a few minutes."

*'*'*

Stark's footsteps recede, and Loki looks out over the city. The cold breeze that tries to sneak through his coat is offset by the occasional rays of sunlight that peek through the clouds, and he wishes he could see it.

It's funny, really—after almost a year on Midgard without sight, it's not being able to navigate that he misses most; it's the little things. The thousand shades of green that make up each blade of grass, how a person's eyes light up when they're genuinely happy, the dust that gathers in corners just out of reach… those are the things he yearns to see.

Perhaps the mortal, too. The only time they've met face-to-face wasn't under fantastic circumstances, and so his memory is hazy at best. Stark's words made an impression, but appearances weren't a focus at that time. It's odd, living with someone for so long and not completely knowing what they look like. His picture of the mortal is comprised of fingers running through his hair to calm him in the worst moments of those accursed withdrawals, a hand on his back helping him to break out of flashbacks, a playful smack on the arm when he says something particularly snarky… come to think of it, despite all the times Loki has either threatened violence or actually acted on it, Stark has never even tried to strike him outside of the training rooms, nor has he ever made any serious threats.

That's–…

That's not happened before. At least, not with anyone he's known in a long time. He's been awful to the man, yet the most he's done in return is snap at him and storm off.

Why?

It's not that Loki feels particularly remorseful about his action, because it's in his nature and Stark knew that when he offered to let him live here, but it's still an odd concept. Everything since the man practically dragged him kicking and screaming back to life has been alien to him.

Someone calls his name from inside, pulling the god from his wandering thoughts. The mortal's lover is there, which makes him wary as he doesn't know her, but if Stark trusts her then he'll trust his judgement. This time, at least.

With her here it's hard to say if things will get moved around, so he brings his cane for safety's sake—Stark has learned to keep constant the layout of rooms he frequents as well as where things are stored in cabinets, drawers, and countertops, so normally it's not an issue. The man is actually pretty considerate about such things.

"Good morrow," he greets the pair politely when he arrives in the doorway.

The area smells of cooked eggs and meats, vegetables, some sugar somewhere… it makes his mouth water. Stark wasn't exaggerating when he'd mentioned having pizza for breakfast—it's a common habit of theirs now.

This 'Pepper' woman may still be a wildcard, but she gets points for cooking.

A slightly hollow tap of fingers against a metal chair indicate which is free at the breakfast bar, so he sits and gives the mortal a slight nod of thanks. Saving face around someone he doesn't know is a blessing. Apparently the seat on Stark's other side is now taken by his lover, judging from the laughter as the mortal presumably does something while she's sitting down.

"Hey, Donder, guess what?"

"Hmm?"

Ceramic scrapes across the stone bar top, and suddenly the smell of food gets a lot stronger.

"We're eating like gods this morning, buddy, it's all sunshine and roses from here on out!"

Loki lets out a short laugh. "Believe me, that's not a thing I would aspire to. Feasts are an embarrassment to anyone with even the slightest concern for manners—I'm not sure why they even bothered inventing utensils, considering that I don't know a man there who's well-versed in using them. That is one thing I most certainly do not miss." He takes a bit of the food and turns to his left, looking down past Stark. "My compliments to the chef."

She replies with an awkwardness well-hidden but still noticeable to one such as himself. He briefly wonders what it's like to be in such a position as she is. "It's really nothing, I just threw on eggs and potatoes. Pretty standard breakfast food."

"Considering the breakfasts we normally have, it is a large step forward. I'm always happy to find food in the refrigerator for once."

"Excuse me!" Stark butts in. "It's not my fault you stuff your face all day! Pepper, he can eat way too much, I've been running studies to figure out how he fits it all into his stomach but the math doesn't add up. Wanna start sitting around on the couch more instead of working everything off again in the gym? It would save me from having to sell the tower and the arc reactor plans to keep the electricity on…"

"Perhaps if you were to purchase food that actually contained some sort of meager nutritional value, I would not have to eat so much of it."

"Hey, potatoes are vegetables!"

The god rolls his eyes, and finishes the bite he'd taken before he speaks. "Chips do not count."

"Um…"

Pepper laughs, causing Stark to make an indignant noise in return. "It's a lot better than his cooking," she says, "trust me."

"Hey–!"

"Oh, believe me, I know. He thought to get ambitious one night and tried to make pizza from scratch. I've never seen so much smoke in my life, which is saying something."

Stark hits his arm. "You're not supposed to team up with her, asshole!"

"Tony, not again…"

"What? It's been ages since I tried to cook!"

"And it should be at least as many more before you do so again, Stark, because that was a tragic waste of good flour."

"You're both awful people, and I hate you."

He tries to stifle a snort, but fails and breaks down into laughter. Pepper soon follows.

The man stews for a minute or so before he gives up trying to be mad.

"Someone's in a good mood this morning. Didn't think you'd be so friendly after last night."

Loki shrugs. "I'm feeling significantly better at the moment. You are incredibly lucky that I enjoy my current dwellings, because otherwise there was a high possibility of me finding a creative way to kill you."

"Awesome. Good to know you care, Donder."

He decides to ignore the sarcasm in favor of appreciating his meal. The idiot mortal can keep talking if he wishes, but it truly has been a while since they've had good food. Not that Loki doesn't cook occasionally, but he's been doing so less as time's gone by simply because there's never anything to make. Stark and Pepper end up in their own conversation, and he's left to eat in relative peace.

When the three of them finish she takes his plate, which the man seems to think is unfair because whilst Loki may be blind, he is apparently 'effort-challenged' (Stark's words, not his). Pepper admonishes him for being rude to a guest.

"Tell you what, Loki, since you have to put up with him most of the time—tell me what you like and I'll see if I can make it for lunch."

Well that's… unexpected. She's a lot more easygoing around him than he'd anticipated. Granted, Stark might have spoken with her last night, it's hard to say.

"I'm incredibly sorry, but I'll have to turn down the offer as there is an errand I need to run this afternoon. It is much appreciated, though."

"Aww, really? I wanted to get to know the guy who's managed to keep Tony out of the tabloids from doing anything stupid again."

"No, Pep," the mortal says, a weird tone to his voice, "let him go."

There's nobody in the reception area when he enters the office, so he shows himself in. Things are a little different from when he was last here—the trash can has changed walls, and something smells like cinnamon—but for the most part, it's still familiar.

It's a little while before anyone returns, so he perches on the desk and toys with a pen beside him.

Familiar footsteps eventually approach, then stop in the doorway.

"Serrure?"

How in the Norns does the man always know who he is? It's uncanny.

"Matt."

The man's cane clacks lightly against the wall where he leans it next to Loki's own, and there's a rustle of fabric. Apparently he's a bit shocked, because there's a pause.

"Where the hell have you been? It's been almost six months, you just disappeared!"

Loki smiles guiltily. "Apologies. That was unintended."

"What happened?"

"I told you from the beginning," he points out, "my life is not completely safe. I had reason to go into hiding, and so I did. Had I the time to warn you I would have, but it was rather a split-second need for action."

"Should I ask?"

The pen clicks a bit louder than he expected.

"Not unless you care to know just how many skeletons I keep in my closet, as the saying goes."

Matt seems to ponder that for a few moments, walking to his desk chair and sitting. Loki follows his movements even though neither of them can see—it's just habit by now.

"Guss fair's fair. You alright?"

Norns, what is it with people acting concerned about him lately? It's not like he's a particularly important part of their lives or anything; this entire business is just setting him on edge. The only time anyone behaves this way is when they expect something of him in the near future.

"More or less," Loki replies warily.

"So where does this leave us? You planning to come back and work here, or just stopping in to let me know you're alive? Job's still open if you want it—you're one of the best I've known, and I could use the help."

He shakes his head. "I can't return, at least not as I was. I'm sorry. Things are still unsafe for me, and my presence could bring down more ill on your heads than you realize. It's best I stay out of sight."

Old wooden desk drawers creak, and there's a rustle of papers.

"Must be some skeletons, then."

He nods.

"Thanks for stopping by, at least. I was worried"

There's one thing that's been constantly nagging at him for these six months, and he can't help but ask.

"The case I was working on, the custody one… what was the outcome?"

"You're really invested in that one, aren't you?" Matt laughs. "Considering how much you did, I don't see how she _couldn't_ have won. He fought hard, but it was a smooth hearing and there weren't any compromises. She got full custody, sans visiting rights or any even remote claim on the kid."

Loki sighs in relief. "Good."

"It was impressive work." Matt's looking through paperwork of some sort, it seems, judging from the occasional rustle.

"I–…" He's not sure if he should offer, considering his unreliability, but decides to go ahead. "I can consult, to an extent. If you wish. I have a computer where I'm staying, and if you send me anything I can take a look. I'm afraid I cannot guarantee work as I did before. Things are chaotic, and not in the good way."

"I think I can live with that. I'd love to have you back, even if it's just on and off—like I said, you're good."

"Then I'll stay in contact." Try as he might, being out here is making him uncomfortable. "I have to go, though."

"Yeah, of course. Good to see you, and like I said, thanks for stopping by. It's good to know you haven't ended up homeless with a drug problem or anything."

Heh.

Well…

Loki won't say anything about that.

Another familiar voice cuts in, this one Franklin's. "Serrure! You're alive!"

Oh, Norns…

*'*'*

Loki doesn't get home until almost five that evening. Tonys curious, but if he tried to figure out where the god went, that would probably get him killed, or worse, shatter any trust the god's started to find in him.

Pepper has ended up deciding to stick around, because apparently after a few months away she's both missed the tower and become pretty damn interested as to what his new houseguest is like.

The god returns to find the pair of them in the living room with wine and the radio on. Tony offers him a glass, which he gratefully takes and sits beside him as he had the previous night.

"So," Pepper starts, "Tony says you play violin?"

Loki blushes.

Loki actually fucking _blushes._

It's all he can do to keep from laughing.

* * *

**Author's Note: **I may or may not have had the first scene in my head for a couple months, ever since I first found Árstíðir…  
Seriously, it's an awesome song:  
youtu{{DOT}}be/JyCGLyMiGY0


	21. Honesty

_**Author's Note:** Sorry I didn't get new chapters up the past couple days—I've been swamped with work and haven't had time to edit them. Just posted three together (19-21) in apology. Enjoy!_

* * *

"What's with you today?" Tony asks when Pepper leaves the room for a minute.

The god looks confused.

"Blitzen, this is the first time in months I've seen you actually start to relax a little, and since I dragged your sorry ass back here you've been too freaked out to even consider leaving the tower. You've hardly gone out on the balcony. Did you get your hands on more morphine or something?"

"Of course not!" Loki seems offended by the suggestion, but thankfully not in the guilty way. "I just had a rough night. It's nothing."

"Ooh, Loki, did you find a _girl?"_

"No!"

"Boy?"

"What? No! No people!"

Okay, he can't help it. "…anima–"

He's cut off by the most terrifyingly murderous look he's seen in a week.

"I was not _bedding_ anyone, Stark, would you _please_ get your mind out of the gutter?"

"You're no fun."

"I'm not your nanny, I do not have even the slightest responsibility to keep you entertained."

"Pepper…" Tony whines, "Loki's not playing nice…"

"Nor am I playing at all."

Pepper comes back in and sits across from them, picking up her tablet again. "Good."

"Pepper!"

The god snickers, and Tony pouts. "You two were supposed to hate each other, not team up on me!"

"What can I say, Stark," Loki comments, "you just seem to have this way of uniting people through a common annoyance."

*'*'*

Not long later, the two mortals end up squabbling about something or another. He doesn't know, nor does he particularly care, because he's exhausted.

The past night, contrary to Stark's apparent belief, hadn't been fun. At all. Actually, it had marked the fact that he's been on Midgard for almost exactly a year.

Back in January, when he'd felt it coming on, he'd begged Jarvis not to tell Stark about what happens to him. Regardless of how much the man's seen, that's one thing Loki isn't going to let him.—not the way that his own mind destroys him like that—it's too great a weakness, even now.

Three hundred and sixty-nine neat lines on his arms.

Twelve ragged scars on his leg.

Two years since he was dragged back to Asgard.

One since he escaped.

…three since he'd let go.

He shudders at the memory, trying to push it away again.

The only reason he's been so calm today is that last night temporarily drained him of his energy. It will be back soon, no doubt, and with a vengeance—hence why he went to see Matt earlier. He honestly doesn't know when (or if) he'll be able to do that again. Right now, though, he's dead tired, and the pair are still bickering. Is that all they ever do? Granted, it's all he and Stark ever do, so most likely. He yawns.

A moment later, a blanket smacks him in the face.

"You falling asleep on me, Rudolph?"

Loki scowls, throwing it back at him. "Don't hit me with things, you putrid wretch."

"Then stop yawning, you're making me yawn!"

Once again the blanket ends up on top of him, so he decides to make the best of the circumstances and pulls it around his shoulders. It's either that or use the thing to lynch the mortal with, and that seems like too much effort right now.

*'*'*

"I keep trying to get a read on him, but every time I think I've figured him out he just confuses me again."

"Word of advice," Tony says, "if you ever think you understand Loki, run for your life, because he's planning something terrifying."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Seriously, though, you _have_ to see him fight sometime. Like actually fight, not just growl at people. If Thor's got half the talent that Rudolph here does, then he's seriously holding back. Hell, I _know_ Loki's still holding back. I've walked in on him training before and it's terrifying. I mean that literally—if you ever see him in action, you'll know what I'm getting at."

Pepper watches them for a few moments, a hint of a smile playing at her lips.

"At first I thought you'd found a shiny new toy and just wanted to poke at it with a stick, but it's more than that, isn't it?"

He pauses halfway through straightening out Loki's blanket. "What do you mean?"

"You care about him."

"I guess, yeah." Tony looks back down at the slumbering god. "It wasn't exactly intentional, I mean, I kind of just kept running into him. Shit happened, and here we are."

"I can't figure out what it is you like about him. I mean, he doesn't seem as bad as we all assumed, but it's not like you exactly hit it off with Justin or Killian, and they're both sort of rude, egotistical psychopaths. I don't know what it is about Loki specifically that makes you like him while you hate the other two."

He laughs. "That's actually a pretty good way to describe the three of them."

It's something he's been trying to figure out himself—why Loki doesn't piss him off like the others do, at least not in the same way—but after a few months to think about it he's got a general idea.

"There's one big difference between him and pretty much everyone else. Well, besides the god part, and the ridiculous amounts of crazy, and the picky eating, and the weird hobbies, etcetera, etcetera… See, Loki? He's fucked up. Big time. I'm talking more problems than even I know what to do with, and I'm pretty damn smart if I do say so myself. He's a total selfish ass, hates pretty much everyone, has a scary lack of morals, zero remorse, and is generally a pretty awful person."

Pepper raises an eyebrow.

_"But,"_ he explains, "he knows exactly how fucked-up he is. Hammer, Killian, Obie, the government, the Avengers… they all act like they're big and perfect and can never be wrong. But since he showed up on Earth, not once has Loki pretended to be anything other than a lying, cheating, manipulative bastard with a huge bucket of issues. He's got no illusions as to how shitty he is, and he doesn't bother trying to look otherwise."

"That… makes a surprising amount of sense," she admits. "In a really twisted way."

Tony laughs again, and runs a hand through his hair. "Essentially, I like the god of lies because he tells the truth."

It's not that Loki _always_ does, or never hides anything—the guy's got serious problems and will do almost anything to keep covered exactly what those are, as has been made abundantly clear by now—it's just that he doesn't hide _that_ he has them. At the risk of sounding a bit like Holden Caulfield, he's sick and tired of phonies.

He hasn't ever acted like he's perfect, and neither has Loki. There are an irritatingly low number of people besides them that can do that.

"Only you, Tony, only you…" Pepper laughs, and watches the god. "He's surprisingly calm, I wasn't expecting that."

"It's been a good day. The best he's had in a long time."

"You've got that look on your face…"

With a sigh, he shifts in his seat. "He's been getting worse. A lot worse, quickly, and I'm not sure he even realizes how much."

At her confused look, he gives her a brief overview of what the god had told him. Loki really has been quickly growing more and more restless and irritable. It's not hard for Tony to see just how much restraint the god is using to keep calm, and to be honest, it terrifies him. If he snaps, things are going to get really bad, really fast.

Right now, though? Loki is the most peaceful creature he's ever seen.

The asgardian shifts in his sleep and ends up practically lying in his lap. Typical. Pepper laughs at the face he makes so he sticks his tongue out at her, but to be honest it doesn't really bother him anymore. While he's asleep Loki seems to be as clingy as he sometimes looks like he wants to when he's awake, and as much as it's not usually his thing, Tony's surprisingly alright with it. Probably an aftereffect of sitting with the asshole for a week straight while he was having fun learning about chemical dependencies. Absentmindedly, he runs his fingers through the god's ridiculously soft hair. Seriously, he's been trying to figure out what carcinogenic mix of shit the guy uses when he showers, because it's uncanny.

He and Pepper end up chatting pretty late into the night, in an attempt to catch up on what they've missed between visits outside the tower. Around midnight Loki wakes up halfway, but hardly even opens his eyes in favor of shifting closer with a content sigh and slipping back to sleep.

"Wha-?"

"I said, get off me, asshole, you're heavy and I've gotta go!"

Loki huffs and doesn't move. "Don' care…"

"Yeah, well, New York cares and so does Fury, so either let me up or have fun saying hi to the Avengers when they come to yell at me."

Reluctantly, the god sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Thanks, buddy. I'll be back when whichever assholes are trying to blow up the city this time are behind SHIELD containment glass."

Ever since he's started living with Loki, he's been suiting up a lot faster—turns out having clear paths to things is actually kind of useful. Not that there have ever been ridiculously high piles of shit or anything, but it's always been sort of organized chaos at best.

The suit whirs and clicks into place around him, and the polished metal plates feel like part of himself by now. Briefly he wonders what it would be like for Loki or Thor, to wear armor someone else built, because he'd never be able to use something like that he didn't make himself. Call it a quirk if you want. Or just trust issues. Or quirky trust issues.

Cyan displays flicker to life, scrolling through diagnostics and system startup data, and after a moment Jarvis lets him know he's set.

_Nothing like a troupe of Sturmgewehr-wielding burlesque dancers,_ he thinks to himself, _to end the evening on a pleasant note._

The entire thing is a nightmare, because it's dark enough outside that half the team can't see once the girls decide to take out the streetlights. It starts around three in the morning and lasts an hour and a half in which, for the most part, everyone tries to get civilians out of the way while not getting shot, and then stop the group from getting away with the isotope they'd been trying to steal from an armored delivery truck.

Tony limps back into the tower around five, trying to keep the weight off his left leg, because it hurts like hell. When he finally manages to get the suit off again, he finds out why that is. Judging from the nice trail of blood down his calf and the suspiciously bullet-shaped hole in his armor, he got shot.

Really?

Stupid brunette.

Thankfully the suit slowed it down enough that the bullet hasn't seemed to hit anything serious, and it's not awful, so he'll take that as a plus.

All things considered, he's survived worse.

A familiar head of jet black hair peeks around the corner, looking an interesting combination between concerned and amused.

"Jarvis said you were injured?"

Tony scowls. "Stripper shot me in the leg." The god breaks down into laughter, and he makes a noise of protest before laughing too. "Shut up, it's not funny!"

"It is, though, Stark," he replies with a snicker.

"No it's not, it hurts!"

Loki rolls his eyes. "Is the first aid kit still where it's supposed to be?"

"What? Yeah, come on, you know I'm not _that_ disorganized, considering how often I get slammed into shit. Don't worry about it, I'll call someone."

"Nonsense," he tells him, crouching down to dig out the box from under the workshop sink, "If you're whining like you are then it's obviously not that bad, so sit down and stop complaining. You probably deserve it, anyway—do I even want to know what sorts of ridiculous things you were spewing at the poor girl?"

"She had an _assault rifle!"_

"All the more reason not to harass her, you utter moron." The god kneels in front of the chair and runs his hands through the contents of the kit to find what he's looking for. "Where is the wound?"

Tony narrows his eyes. "Remember the whole thing with the lair? Are you sure you're not still trying to collect limbs? Because I'm not sure how much I trust you with a bullet hole you can't see unless you have some sort of freaky ulterior motive…"

"You caught me, Stark. I'm planning to amputate your leg using only an adhesive bandage and hang it on the wall beside the heads of my enemies."

"I KNEW IT."

Loki just shakes his head in exasperation.

"Fine, but if I end up with an odd number or extremities I'm sending Pepper after you. Left thigh, outside, about a third of the way up. This is going to hurt, isn't it?"

"Is the bullet still in the wound?"

"Think so."

"Then probably."

Well, that's reassuring. Gotta love awesome bedside manner—granted, it's probably still better than how he'd acted when the god was sick in bed. And he hates people babying him anyway.

Gentle fingers skim over his leg as Loki searches for the injury, and Tony winces in pain when he finds it.

"You're wearing the undersuit?"

"Do I look like I want pyjama pants bunched up while I'm flying? Don't think so."

He rolls his eyes and sits back on his heels. "Then either change or don't get mad when I take a pair of scissors to it."

Good point.

When he sits back down, having found a pair of shorts, Loki resumes his work. Fingers brush over the wound again and Tony hisses, causing the god to glance up.

"Bite down," Loki tells him, handing him a roll of gauze.

"What?"

He glances up, a knowing smile on his face. "Trust me."

Slightly disconcerted, Tony does. When the god goes to retrieve the bullet he learns why.

Is that fucking _amusement_ on the asshole's face whenever he moans in pain? He so hates him right now. So badly.

Loki closes his eyes, focused on his work. The process hurts like a bitch but thankfully doesn't take long, so pretty soon the worst of the sharp, searing pain is over and the god sews the wound shut with neat, careful stitches.

"Better?"

Tony glares. "You enjoyed that, didn't you?"

"I won't lie and say it wasn't a bit funny how pathetic mortals are. I didn't have to remove the bullet, technically, but I figured since it wouldn't hurt things you'd probably appreciate it. You should be grateful the shot fell where it did, because if the aim had been much off it could have hit something rather vital. As things stand, you should be fine so long as you're careful."

"How do you know about bullet wounds? Just curious, since last time I knew you guys didn't have guns on Ass-guard."

He lets out a long-suffering sigh and throws an alcohol wipe packet at Tony's face. Rude.

"Injuries, at their core, all operate under the same principals. I've been shot with enough arrows and magically-propelled projectiles to know the basics of treating such things."

The cool of damp cloth only stings a little while the god cleans away the remaining blood with an ease and precision that can only come with years of repetition.

"Now, aren't you glad you're not a hero?"

Loki looks up, his gaze possibly the closest thing to an accurate one Tony's seen since the god had shown up on Earth again, and speaks with a sincerity that shakes him a bit.

"You cannot imagine what I would give up to fight again, Stark. I would welcome injury as an old friend."

He keeps forgetting just what it means that he's pretty much trapped here. Loki's not the man meant to sit quietly, chaos god or not, and the look of utter conviction in his eyes is painful. For a minute, Tony tries to imagine what it would be like if he were trapped on Asgard without his suit or any form of technology. It's impossible, to even consider what that would entail, to be completely purposeless and so far from home.

It's a scary thought.

Looking back down at the god replacing first aid equipment, things click a little more.

Tony Stark gets an idea.

"…you want to fight?"

Loki glances up, confusion clouding his storm-grey eyes. "Of course I do."

"I might be able to do something about that. No promises, but I'll see what I can manage."

*'*'*

The mortal woman struggles, only letting him tighten his grip. They've been sparring for an hour or so while Stark is off Norns-only-know-where, at her request to learn a bit of basic self-defense. It's as good a use of his free time as anything at the moment, and although it's practically like training a child to walk, it's still a bit entertaining. She has heart, to be sure. Next to no knowledge of combat, though, unfortunately, so he has to start her from the beginning.

Form is rather difficult to gauge when one can't see their student.

The other issue is that he can hardly push her around because he's so worried about harming her.

A few seconds more and she taps out, so he releases her and sits back. "You're panicking. If you die you die; that's all there is to it. Stop worrying so much and let your instincts take over."

"But–"

"Again," Loki cuts her off. "Try to lock me, any way you like. Don't worry about holding it, just see if you can get ahold of me in the first place. Go."

To her credit, the woman is as quiet as a field-mouse when she wishes to be, which helps her cause greatly. She tends to miscalculate on the attack, though, letting him lever her over his shoulder and wrestle her to the ground.

"Not quite."

"What did I do wrong? It felt off, but I don't know how."

If there's one thing in particular about her that he likes, it's that she never makes excuses for her mistakes.

"You keep overshooting—stop acting like I'm three times my size, your strength will suffice once you learn how to use it. Control is far more important than power right now. Once you understand that, I'll show you that even as you are, you can knock me out with the right approach."

"Alright…" She sounds skeptical, but keeps trying.

He lets her do it, for the most part, because throwing her would be the simplest thing in the world, but when she does finally bring him to the mat unconscious, her voice changes significantly. Loki wakes after a second or two to a very surprised, concerned, and excited Pepper trying to understand the mechanics of the same choke he'd used on Stark so many months ago now. It truly is effective, when done right.

Will she be able to actually bring down him or another villain? No, not at all. But with a little practice she'll be able to defend herself, which seems to have been Stark's plan.

Speaking of the mortal, the imbecile practically waltzes in judging from the pattern and weight of his footsteps.

"Hey, Rudolph, I've got something you might be interested in playing with."


	22. Push

_**Author's Note: **pallyndrome, I tried to respond privately the last two times you asked, but I'm guessing the messages didn't go through? In answer to your question, yes, it will be. I'm not ignoring you; I swear!_

* * *

Cold, smooth metal arches underneath his fingers when Stark guides them to what he's been lead to see. It's hard to tell just what he's being shown, which he assumes the man is still bad at understanding considering his apparent expectation, since he has no knowledge of darkness in this form. Loki runs his hands over the object, finding all the seams and joints where his fingernails catch or the rise of the icy surface.

"You said you wanted to fight, Dasher? Then come fight with me." There's a hint of smugness in his voice.

Loki looks over at him, eyebrow raised in derision. "You do recall the slight detail that I am blind and cannot see whatever contraption it is you are trying to show me?" He's met with a sigh.

"Oh for fuck's sake." Stark takes his hands again and rests them higher on what feels like a mask. "If you want to fight so badly, then next time I suit up, do the same and tag along."

Wait, does he mean–? A fabric garment is pressed into his hand.

"Go get changed. You're going to have so much fun; you have no fucking clue."

Still a little confused, Loki does as he says. The outfit is a bit of a nightmare to figure out sans-vision, because it's ridiculously tight-fitted and likes to get twisted, but eventually he manages. Upon returning, Stark whistles.

"Damn, do I always look that Tron when I wear that? Hell yes. That's awesome. Anyway, stand over here, no, over a little– there you go."

Machinery whirs and plates slot together around him, forming a far different form of armor than he's used to wearing. The helmet feels a bit claustrophobic, as he's not used to having his face covered, but otherwise the weight is a remarkable comfort. Midgardian clothes are just so _light, _and most of the time he feels like he's walking around half-naked. Suddenly he feels more himself, if only a little bit.

Jarvis' voice flickers to life and different pieces move as they calibrate themselves (it's a ridiculously bizarre feeling, to have one's armor shift of its own accord).

"Right, so, I had to tweak some stuff since you can't see—you'll have to let me know how it's working, because I was having a hard time guessing what to do. For the most part Jarvis should be able to help compensate for any missteps, and can give you aural cues instead of visual ones, so in theory nobody should be able to tell you're blind unless they're looking for it. Not important right now, though, because we have something more fun to do. C'mon!"

Loki follows the man out onto the balcony and up to the landing pad, apprehension settling in.

"Things should be pretty logical, and you know Jarvis is clever. He'll adapt the system if need be. Ready?"

"I don't–" He's cut off by a sharp push and a sudden rush of air around him as he freefalls. For half a second he panics, the drop a bit too reminiscent of other memories, but in practically the same instant his instincts kick in, and with a reflexive movement the repulsors do their work to keep him airborne.

The first thing he notices is that the suit sounds very different inside than it does from the outside. There's no roar or clank, just a hum of electricity and _life,_ subtle vibrations that travel outwards from his chest like some sort of mechanical pulse, and there's something just this side of magical about it—quite literally, the movement of the energy is rather similar to that of magic. For a couple moments he just hangs in the air, breathless at the surge of adrenaline. It's nowhere near what he once had, but it's still a lot more than he has for the past year.

By the Norns, he's _flying._

He laughs, a free and exhilarated thing, and shoots into the air.

A muffled whine of the other man's thrusters firing alerts him to the fact that Stark is close behind, but he doesn't really care and instead opts for taking off to find out just how fast the suit is. Further, and further, and faster, and faster, until all he knows is the salty tang of ocean air and the charge of power that is almost enough to make him weep for loss of what he'd once had. So long as he pushes that tragedy out of his mind, this is beyond incredible.

"Damn, Prancer," Stark's voice filters through his speakers, "take it you're enjoying things?"

Loki can't even respond, he's so caught up in the rush. Finally, _finally_ he feels a little bit less like a dead man walking and more like a god.

Without warning he turns a sharp ninety degree angle and pushes the speed again, letting out a shout of joy when he breaks the sound barrier, and just keeps pushing it faster. Eyes closed, pouring every ounce of repulsor energy into his velocity, he finds a few moments of freedom. There's nothing but an impossibly thin layer of metal between him, the air, and the water—no obligations, just freedom; his heart pounds an excited drumbeat inside his chest.

"Holy shit, wait up–!"

Ehehe, nope. Not in the slightest. If the mortal wants to stay nearby, then he should try harder. Loki is going to strain the technology until it drops him a few thousand feet straight into the sea if he can.

Actually, forget that. The sea sounds fantastic.

He knows enough about the suits by now to be well aware they're airtight, so Loki cuts the power by a bit and drops into the water.

The impact is strong (unsurprising, considering the speed he's been traveling at), although he dives smoothly so it's minimized. Environmental factors shift with the change, the dynamics of water versus air affecting his suit's responses, but Jarvis compensates easily for most of it and he does himself for the rest. There's no real point to coming down here, he's just doing it because he can, but it does end up giving him an opportunity to test the system a bit more which is nice. He's forced to slow a bit to avoid any unfortunate incidents with marine life, so he uses the chance to get used to how Jarvis warns him about objects in close proximity and the movements of others.

It's–… it's peaceful. The rush is peaceful.

So long with _nothingness_ has been driving him closer and closer to madness, but now? Speed, and power, and that _incredible_ edge of fear? His mind quiets just the tiniest bit.

Quiet water, roiling with the strength inherent in such a thing, stretches out in every direction. To be honest, he has no idea where he is, but he couldn't care less.

*'*'*

…Wow.

If he'd known earlier how much of a difference this would make, Tony would have slapped together a suit for the god a lot sooner.

Seriously, the change in Loki's attitude is pretty much instant as soon as he finds himself in mid-air, going from the frustrated, on-edge time bomb to a fucking five-year-old kid with a new toy. Three thousand years old his ass—the god is ten at most.

It's also the most sincerely happy he's seen him since they met.

Around ten minutes later, the surface of the water breaks and Loki arcs back up into the sky in a streak of black and silver metal. His movements are still a little awkward—which makes sense, considering how short a time he's been in the suit—but to be honest, Tony doubts the god even notices. The laughter echoing in his ear is pure, unadulterated joy. He can't help but smile.

For the most part he just ends up tagging along, following Loki's path and watching as he gets more used to flying. He's a quick study, and his movements regain their natural grace by the second.

The sun is dipping its face below the horizon and casting a rainbow of colors into the clouds when the god finally slows to a more normal pace and Tony can reasonably fly alongside him. Neither of them speak, just slowly circle back toward Manhattan.

He lets Loki get out of his suit first, following behind him through the disassembly unit.

When the god glances back, he's wearing the biggest, most genuine grin he's ever seen.

Just, wow.

*'*'*

Loki's well aware of the fact that he probably looks like an idiot, but he honestly can't bring himself to care. He isn't just passable, he might actually feel actively _positive._ It's been ridiculously long since that last happened, and Valkyries if it isn't incredible.

Life feels just slightly more worth living, his mind is a little calmer, and everything seems the tiniest bit alright.

It's not something he often does, but the god ducks into a respectful bow. "Thank you, Stark," he says with more sincerity than he'd intended, "truly."

"Yeah, 'course. We've got some practice to do, though, because the battle system in that thing is a bit of a mod and it'll take some getting used to. I'll show you tomorrow, if you want."

He nods, only half paying attention, and Stark must notice because he stops talking for a moment.

"…so I did okay?"

The night air has a bit of a bite to it, and it's pleasant. He feels alive. "Yeah. You did alright."

To be honest, it's a lot more than alright, and he's pretty sure that the man can see that. What Loki has a bit of a hard time digesting is the fact that Stark just handed him some of the most personal technology that he possesses, as though it's the most logical and normal thing in the world. The ridiculous amount of trust the mortal keeps showing him makes him uncomfortable. What will Stark do when that trust is broken? Loki Son of None is a liar at heart and the capability to live up to positive expectations is something he's never had.

This can only ever end in pain; surely the man sees that by now?

Then again, Loki is the one who will end _everything,_ and it will be far from a pleasant death for the realms. Anyone who thinks he's a good person at heart is in for a _very_ large surprise—he's not evil, perhaps, but he's far from good. Screams are just such beautiful music, and he'll never be able to stop loving them. He was born into war, he supposes, and it's simply in his nature. Woven into his monster blood. Causing pain will always serve to bring him pleasure, and Loki couldn't care less if it's twisted.

For the moment, though, the rush of adrenaline did a bit to ease his mood, so that won't happen today. There's plenty of time to watch the worlds burn later.

A sharp poke in the side pulls him out of his thoughts (and nearly earns the mortal a broken nose simply off reflex).

"So, Pepper left just after we did, is gonna be gone for the next week or so, and we've got the tower to ourselves. I'm thinking we should take advantage of the opportunity, order ridiculous amounts of awful takeout, and have an epic game night."

"Or we could go somewhere and actually eat decent food for once."

Stark perks up. "Like, _go somewhere_ go somewhere?"

"I do believe that's what the words 'go somewhere' means, unless I've been incorrect for three millennia. There's supposed to be a place in Harlem that has quite spectacular Southern food. I think they have chess and checkerboards as well."

"Give me ten to shower and change, and I'm definitely in."

–––

"You can't jump me with my own piece, asshole!"

"I'm not! This is mine!"

"No, I'm black!"

"Everything's black!"

"You can't use that as an excuse for doing whatever the hell you feel like!"

"Just watch me."

"I just said that isn't your piece–!"

"Excuse me, ma'am," Loki asks the waitress who's just walked up to their table (he can tell she's female by the quite distinct clicks of her heeled shoes), "is this piece red or black?"

"Red."

"You absolute cheating _bastard!"_ He throws the checker he'd jumped at the insufferable mortal's face, then turns back to the woman with a smile. "My apologies, that was terrible manners. Good evening."

"Not a worry, glad to help. My name's Qiana, and I'll be your server today. Can I get ya'll something to drink?" The woman's voice is warm, kind, and she sounds to be in her middle years. Loki decides he likes her.

Stark chooses something off the wine menu so he does the same, and they order dinner at the same time since it's late.

"This is still odd," Loki muses, sliding a piece across the board. It scrapes against the cardboard slightly when the mortal nudges it more into its space. "On Asgard, there were no restaurants, at least not in the way you have them here. We had taverns, but that's really the extent of things. Unless you were travelling and stopping at an inn for the night, you ate what was provided at home or by friends. Things on Midgard are much less personal in many senses."

"What, so you mean, no pizza delivery? Lame."

He rolls his eyes. "No pizza delivery. Our meals were better, though. Here you act like fresh foods are a delicacy, but everything we ate was essentially straight from the fields. We don't have the same methods to preserve things as you do, so we couldn't eat, say, oranges in the middle of winter. Not that Asgard has oranges."

"You don't have _oranges?"_

"Stark, our crops and animals are almost entirely different than yours are. Oranges are Midgardian in origin."

"But you guys have like horses and shit, don't you?"

"Of course we do." Loki runs his nail over the grooved edge of a spare checker. "Who do you think first brought the creatures to humankind?"

"Wait, horses are Asgardian?"

With a laugh, he replies. "Yes, mortal, the gods brought your kind horses. Apples too. Be glad that our flora and fauna are not identical, because Midgardians would not have made it this long if they were."

"Sure, mister fancy-pants. Don't give us any credit for our awesomeness."

"I'm giving you full credit; there's just not much there."

"You're mean!"

"I try," he says with an innocent smile, and is rewarded by a checker between the eyes. "Cut it out!"

"Nope."

"You're impossible."

"Yep!"

"I hate you."

"I'm hurt, Blitzen, I really am. You wound me. What do you guys even eat, then, if you don't have our shit?"

Loki shrugs. "At the core, the basics are the same. Our grains are different but we have bread similar to yours. We keep dairy animals, we grow crops… we do tend to eat more predators than your kind do, though—after all, the fun is in the chase, and we hunt our own meat. And many of our meals take longer to cook. It's hard to explain differences without you having some vague form of reference. We don't use as much sweetening, there's another thing—our equivalents to sugar and salt are expensive commodities, and while the palace can afford them, their use is not as widespread in recipes because of the fact."

The man thinks it over for a minute, and uses the time to take a turn. "King, eleven to sixteen. Guess that makes sense but it's still weird. Then again, I'm just a puny mortal; what do I know about the big bad universe?"

"You're learning, I see."

"What, about the game or my apparent insignificance—which is total bullshit, because I'm awesome."

"Definitely not the former," Loki replies, getting in a triple-jump thanks to the new layout of the man's pieces.

Stark laughs. "You sure about that? King me."

Dammit.

"Oh, come now, Stark. Do you honestly think I didn't see that waiting there? Your move wasn't as clever as you thought, it will do you minimal good."

As it turns out, that's not strictly true, and the obnoxious mortal wins the match.

"You cheated! I know for a fact that you are a no-good, cheating liar who is willing to take advantage of a blind man!"

"Ah, no, I think you're just a really sore loser."

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep track of so many pieces when you can't see them, or the spaces they sit on? I don't think so!"

"Oh shut up and get over it. I beat you. End of story."

*'*'*

It's possibly one of the most relaxing evenings they've spent together in months—Loki is in high spirits (the good kind, not the I'm-going-to-rip-your-face-off-and-feed-it-to-baby-kittens kind), the restaurant's kind of homey, there's good food, and neither of them have any looming worries. They're free to just laugh. The god looks the happiest he has in a long time, and in truth, Tony feels the same. He doesn't know what it is about Loki, but something about watching a genuine smile light up his face makes him feel inexplicably happy. It's rare—incredibly so—but maybe that's why it's so remarkable. Knowing that it's him that put that smile there is even better, and quite frankly, right now they're both probably the happiest they've been in a long time.

Ever since he'd first had the idea, Tony's known that giving the god access to even blueprints of the suit, let alone one of his own, should set off major warning bells. What it means that none have gone off he doesn't know and doesn't want to look too hard at. It just felt like what he should do, and at this point he doesn't have even the slightest hint of regret over the decision. Loki is actually _happy._ That's so far past amazing that he doesn't know what to do with it.

A part of him is actually really sad now, too, seeing just how much of a difference there is between this and the god's normal attitude. The ever-present sorrow seems all the more obvious in comparison.

Loki glances up from his slice of cornbread, that ridiculous smile warming Tony's heart in a disconcerting way. It's weird to see him in sunglasses again—while they've been at the tower the god hasn't bothered wearing them, since he and Pepper are both used to seeing him without and aren't particularly squeamish about the scars (although they're not pretty, and Tony still hates them for what has been done to the god), but now that they're out in public again they've made a reappearance.

To be totally honest, he kind of loves the nights he and Loki spend together just hanging out like this. The god understands him in a way that most people don't (because they're a little too similar for comfort), but as long as Tony ignores the scary bits of that it means that they aren't constantly fighting to find the right words to explain things. In some ways, he thinks the two of them might have helped balanced each other out, even just a little. A little counter-crazy.

Plus, best of all, Loki takes zero shit and gives even less.

So no, he doesn't regret giving the god a suit. When Tony practically dragged him back to life, he'd already placed his trust in him, and despite the roller-coaster ride of ups and downs, Loki's never truly broken it. He's a better guy than he gives himself credit for. It kind of hurts, actually, the glimpses Tony catches every once in a while of what the asgardian thinks of himself, because for all the pomp and circumstance, he's insecure as hell.

Then again, so's Tony in some ways.

Fuck. Loki's practically his evil twin.

*'*'*

A week and a half later, Stark gets a call from the Director.

"Come on, slowpoke, Rogers is gonna be done with shit before we even get there!"

Loki scowls, waiting for the last few pieces to slide into place, then follows him up to the balcony. "Do you have a plan, or are we just going to show up and hope for the best?"

"I like hoping for the best; life's more fun that way."

Why in Yggdrasil does he always end up with people who don't bother thinking before bashing people's heads in? Well, that's not t_echnically_ true, he supposes, since Stark does tend to think things through (thank the Norns), but nonetheless.

This time Loki decides to take revenge and shoves the idiot mortal over the side before jumping into the air after him. "Where are we going, and what are we facing? Surely you know at least that much." He has to dodge a repulsor blast aimed his way in return for the push.

"Asshole. Some Hydra offshoot is causing mayhem in the Garment District, and Steve says there are civilians down. SHIELD is trying to evacuate the area but there are a lot of people trapped."

He nods. "Understood. Keep the Avengers out of my way." With a sharp burst of power to his repulsors, Loki shoots ahead into the fray before the man can respond, leading with a blast of energy in the direction Jarvis indicates an enemy stands. A solid thunk indicates he's hit and thrown the target.

Fantastic.

Who's next?

*'*'*

"Stark, you didn't say you were bringing company." The supersoldier ducks and spins, missing his target by a fraction of an inch and having to readjust. "Is that Rhodes?"

You wish, flag boy. "Nope, old friend of mine who wanted to tag along."

"Did SHIELD clear him for combat?"

"He can fight, don't worry."

"You sure about that?" Natasha cuts in from where she's fighting back-to-back with Thor a few blocks down.

Tony glances over toward where Loki is playing chicken with a guy on a hovercraft. "I think he can manage." Sure enough, the god doesn't so much as flinch and the Hydra agent veers a little too far, slamming head-first into a brick wall. That's gonna leave a mark.

Always wear helmets, kids.

"At least give me a name, Stark." Steve requests.

Loki spins and glances up, turning on his channel for a moment. "You may call me Lachlan if you so wish."

He starts to say something in return, but a Hydra agent shows up and the Avenger ends up with more pressing matters.

As the fight wears on, Tony does start to notice that the god is purposefully missing sometimes, or letting himself get hit. Switching his comms over to a private channel, he calls him out on it.

"Stark, let's think about the situation for a moment. The person in this fight who is the biggest threat to me is on your team, and he happens to be even more familiar with my battle style than you are with your suit. Yes, the blindness will affect how I fight to an extent, but if I otherwise do so as normal then he'll likely catch on. Shut up and let me keep doing my work, okay? And keep the Odinson," Loki practically spits the name, "as far away from me as possible. I'd hate for him to get caught in 'friendly' fire."

Loki sounds pretty damn serious about that last bit so Tony decides to help Thor out when the god takes to the air. It's probably a good idea to try and avoid team casualties.

*'*'*

"Stark, shut your mouth! It's hard enough to focus without you overriding the cu-" He's cut off when a blast slams into his chest, and stumbles backwards a few steps with the echo still ringing in his ears. If the training room had been a nightmare, then this is just downright hellish with all the ambient noise and constant yelling over the comms. With a gesture he shuts his off so that he can concentrate on where everything is. Teamwork is meaningless if he's completely disoriented.

Three high-pitched pings on his right and he ducks, rolling forward in a tight somersault and spinning back to aim a repulsor blast at the space he'd just been occupying. Judging from the cry, he hit his mark.

Jarvis does his best to filter what is and isn't relevant data. Stark is the only Avenger constantly in his soundscape, the others only entering as necessary, and villains currently engaged without trouble fade to the background. Once locked in battle with one enemy, everything else falls away unless it becomes immediately relevant, but all of the dilution means that he's never getting the big picture. His strategy only includes himself, because that's all he can keep track of whilst staying aware of his surroundings. The terrain is the hardest part—again, Jarvis is handling a lot of the work, but even so he keeps catching his foot on debris and getting off-balance mid-attack when the suit compensates for something he almost ran into by mistake. Staying in the air is easier, but he's gotten backed under an overhang defending civilians without an easy way out. Well, an easy way out that doesn't involve them all getting shot, and letting that happen probably wouldn't earn him any love from the Avengers.

This would all be a lot easier if he weren't relying on this damn noise! In battle he's always let sound fall away, focused on his breath and the rhythm of his movements, and kept everything else in his peripheral until it registered as a threat. There's so much chaos flooding over his senses that it's throwing his concentration.

A warning beeps to the right and he leaps onto a woman just in time to shove her away from a blast, rolling in such a manner that his weight doesn't crush her.

Alright, so maybe he's not completely incapacitated—if he were, he wouldn't be fighting, he's not an idiot—but it's no longer as natural as it should be. A thousand curses upon the Allfather and his kin. May the next glass of wine he brings to his lips turn to blood.

With a turn in momentum he levers himself up over the girl's head, jumping to his feet and tackling one of the wretched creatures. It feels fantastic. His punch may or may not permanently disfigure the man's face, but Stark had only told him to avoid killing when possible. Never mentioned maiming.

He probably won't make that mistake in the future, but Loki is more than happy to take advantage while he can.

The other four shoot at him, like that will do any damage, and he grins under the mask. He'd missed this—the adrenaline, the power, the fear in the eyes of his enemies when they realize that their death (or incredible pain, in this case) will come no matter what they do. He counters with a kick backed by a burst from one of his foot repulsors, which knocks the first man out and back into another, who is pinned uselessly under the dead weight. Three down, two to go. He cocks his head, facing the other two innocently.

"Stand down and you won't be harmed?"

There's a whine as one of them (the lefthand, according to Jarvis' cue) charges his energy weapon. Well, he did warn them… Before it gains enough power to shoot, Loki is on top of him. The gun, or blaster, or whatever stupid name the mortals have named it, makes quite an impressive explosion when he cracks the outer shell and sends it flying toward the last man. He's got no clue if he lives or dies, but it doesn't really matter so long as he's out of the fight. Turning back to the group (innocents, Stark would call them, but no man is truly innocent), he addresses them.

"At the top of the stairwell to your left should be a ladder to the roof. Go up, keep your heads down, and wait for a SHIELD helicopter to get you out of here. Believe me when I say that if you follow me out of this building, you will not like the fates that you meet." He waves. "Have a pleasant day!"

With that, Loki turns toward the entrance and naturally steps onto a fallen rod in such a way that it throws his balance. Before Jarvis can catch him, he tucks into a neat somersault and continues on as though the incident never happened in a futile attempt to save face, but it's yet another reminder of his helplessness and makes his cheeks flush red in shame and anger.

Outside, everything is mayhem again—apparently the mortals they stand against have acquired some sort of flying contraptions and are quite happily terrorizing those who have not yet fled the area. Loki quite happily leaps into the air and goes after them one at a time as Jarvis points them out.

In most cases, he's learned the style in which they were taught enough to predict their evasion tactics and counter them, but a few (mostly women, which doesn't surprise him since he's fought very few before now) are actually clever enough to think for themselves. When they do, he ends up rocketing past them. It's ridiculously irritating and slightly embarrassing, not that he'll show it. Well, _would_ show it if his face was not masked. He leaves those for the others and focuses on the men who are more foolish. The clash of metal on kevlar is quite satisfying.

Glass shatters somewhere to his right, followed by a cry of pain. Jarvis marks the individual as an ally, so he heads in that direction, only to miss the window by a few degrees and fly head-first into a brick wall.

"Jarvis! Why in Valhalla didn't you correct that?" His ears are ringing from the impact and rage starts heating his chest.

"My apologies, sir, I attempted to do so but couldn't change your trajectory at enough of an angle in time."

Were it not for the fact that the sounds of battle still surround him, he'd show Jarvis just what he thought of the mistake. As it is, he's busy enough trying to sort out his hearing that it's not worth the extra effort.

"Lachlan, you alright?" Stark's voice filters through the sounds of battle. "Most people like to fly through windows, not headbutt walls and see if their pretty suit can smash through."

Loki tips a finger to activate his microphone. "I am _fine,"_ he spits in reply. "Perhaps you should reprogram your computer to do a better job at flying."

"Sure, sure, blame the genius for everything. All things considered, you're not on autopilot right now, you're expected to do some work."

"Yes, well, that _would_ be quite nice, wouldn't it? Unfortunately, my skills at aiming this metal heap are slightly lacking at present. Or have you forgotten?" He rights himself and makes it through the shattered window this time.

"Hey, you're the one who wanted to f-"

Their captain cuts him off. "Stark, if you and your guest could stop bickering for a few moments? I've got a few loose ends over here I need you to tie up."

"Got it. Be a good boy, Lassie, and try not to blow up too mu-"

He cuts off the mic, choosing to ignore the derogatory comment. The ally he'd come for is surrounded by three well-trained fighters, and while he's putting up a good fight, he's only managing to defend himself instead of get in any offensive hits. Loki hovers for a moment, figuring out who's where. Once he's pretty sure he won't kill the ally by mistake, he moves out of the shadows and speaks cheerily.

"Hello, boys, having fun? I'm sorry to inform you that playtime is now over, because the adults have grown-up matters to attend to."

With a scathing remark to Jarvis about keeping him in the right direction, he shoots toward the closest of the men, turns, carries him just outside the window, and lets go. Humans can survive falls from eight or nine hundred feet, right? If not, he can always claim ignorance of just how weak their bodies are.

The screams are quite hilariously effeminate.

The other man (not quite teammate, he's not one of the Avengers, but Jarvis still labels him as on their side) has taken down the other two, and is apparently tending to a wound. It's hard to tell himself, between the suit blocking his senses and the already overwhelming scent of blood in the air. He'll trust the computer for now.

"Thanks," the man manages, still a bit out of breath. The voice is familiar, but he can't quite place it. Stupid metal. Loki lands and walks toward the voice, stopping when a ping tells him he's a couple paces away.

"Of course. Can I be of aid?"

"Think I'm good. Who are you, Rhodey? Don't recognize the suit."

He shakes his head. "I am an acquaintance of Stark's."

"Gotcha. What do I call you?"

"Lachlan will suffice." There's a pause in which Jarvis informs him that the man nodded. "And yourself?"

There's a quiet laugh. "What, you didn't see the getup? Name's Daredevil."

"A pleasure. Do you requi-" He catches himself. There are more than a few rumors, ones that he believes could be true, that the Devil is Murdock. Loki is not so foolish as to be unaware to the fact that his natural formality is… uncommon. His coworker is a quite an intelligent man. He'll put two and two together if he's not careful. There's a half-second pause, which is a little too long for his liking but not so much as should be noticeable, while he draws up memories of Stark's speech patterns to use as a guide. "Do you need a lift anywhere? I'm headed back to the park, but I can drop you off somewhere first."

"Thanks, but I should be good. See you around?"

Loki nods, then leaps back out the window and kicks the thrusters into gear.

"I need some backup over on Seventh and Thirty-ninth!" Stark shouts over the open comms.

"On my way," he calls in return, reorienting himself and shooting toward the aforementioned location.

As he closes in, the soundscape goes mayhem and he falters for a moment—a crucial moment, because in the next the mortal screams in pain as an explosion rocks the area. Loki zeroes in on the location and goes for the attack, taking down Hydra agents like easy game. A rumble and crack only add urgency and power to his movements, and the 'no kill' rule is out the window. He stops being careful and just shoots at anything that moves.

There's an ominous groan of metal and concrete to his left and he abandons fighting entirely, aiming toward the fallen man, issuing a command to Jarvis, and taking off.

Glass shatters and rains down around them, beams and sections of wall cracking the sidewalk inches behind Loki's boots. He braces himself over Stark's form and arches his back to take the impact of the falling building.

–––

After the final boom, the silence is deafening as the debris settles—his comms were knocked out so he's left without any contact to the team, but he's pretty sure they know that Stark is down.

Jarvis struggles back online a couple minutes later to assure him that the man is alive and stable, so the god turns his attention to finding a safe way out of the wreckage. There's really no _good_ way to go about things. He opts for carefully shifting what he can and blasting away at the rest, trying to find a sliver or fresh air among the choking dust, with limited luck. They're not exactly on the edge, and Loki's not in fantastic shape. His wrist feels like it's broken, he's got a killer headache, and his legs are protesting the movement, which makes this a bit harder than it normally would be.

Not seeing a better way, he keeps going, and after what feels like nearly an hour (although it's probably closer to twenty minutes) a piece is lifted away from the outside and an overly-familiar voice greets him.

"Friend of Stark! Is he with you?"

Grateful for the alteration the suit makes to his voice, and with a little help of his own knowledge of Midgardian accents, he responds. "He's right over here, gimme a hand?"

"Of course. I am in your debt."

In his debt? _In Loki's debt?_ The Odinson owes Loki nothing, because _he_ is nothing. Just a slobbering, traitorous wretch with a heart darker than blindness. Darker perhaps, even, than the abyss itself.

No, nothing is owed, and nothing is wanted. Once the Odinson has retrieved their injured comrade, Loki flees the area and goes back to the tower to find something for his sudden and painful nausea.

* * *

_**Author's Note: **I'm not sure what it says about me that food shows up so much in this fic. I'm not even hungry when I'm writing; it just happens._


	23. Requests

"How is he?" Loki asks quietly, stepping out of the shadows at the familiar footsteps.

"He's got a concussion, some nasty cuts and bruises, and a couple minor burns, but he'll be alright. What about you? From what I've heard, it would have been a lot worse if you hadn't jumped in."

The god shrugs. "He would have been fine. I'm not badly injured either; we got lucky with where we were when the building came down." Question answered, he turns to leave, but Pepper stops him with a hand on his arm.

"He's asleep, but you can go see him if you like. The Avengers are all meeting with Director Fury right now so you won't end up with any unwelcome surprises."

Loki hesitates but she assures him that she'll make sure SHIELD doesn't find out he's here, so he nods his thanks and slips through the door. The room is eerily quiet, unlike the healing rooms of Asgard, and the only sound is the shrill beep of a monitor of some sort. Heart rate, from the sound of it. He's only been here for a little while, but he hates the building with a burning passion—everything reeks of anesthesia, sickness, and death smothered in bleach—the healers themselves seem cold and mechanical. It's like stepping into a plague ward. Is this what it means to be mortal? To be constantly surrounded by the dying? The thought makes him shudder in dread. He can't spend the rest of his life on this realm, walking amongst living corpses; it'll drive him even further mad than he already is.

There's a stiff chair beside the bed, so he settles on it and leans his cane against the wall. If he listens, he can hear Starks' breathing over the beep, and if he really focuses he can zero in on the man's heartbeat itself under the noise. Loki pulls his feet up onto the chair and closes his eyes, blocking out the machinery. Slowly he reassures himself that the mortal is alive and well.

–––

Some time later, when the beeping has apparently been stopped (thank the Norns), he's woken by a hand in his hair and his name being called softly.

"…Loki?"

He grumbles tiredly, burying his nose further in his arms, and earns a laugh from the man.

"Morning, Sleeping Beauty."

After a moment to yawn, he tilts his head to look up at the man from where he'd lain his head on the bed beside him and scowls. "I am _not_ a princess."

"You sure? You've got the hair for it."

Still blinking the sleep from his eyes, Loki sticks his tongue out at the idiot with all the air of a petulant child. "You're just jealous."

"Oh, you know it," is the sarcastic response. "Gotta admit, I didn't expect you to show up here. Should I be flattered, or concerned that you're planning something?"

"If I told you, that wouldn't be any fun."

Stark smacks him in the head. "No causing problems in the hospital, that's bad manners. Are you alright, though? I don't really remember much of what happened firsthand, but from what I've seen on the news you kind of acted like an idiot."

_"Me,_ the idiot? What in Svartalfheim do you think _you_ were doing?"

"Ah, saving civilians?"

"They're not worth _that_ much."

"You're really bad at this whole superhero idea, aren't you?"

Loki levels him with a look. "Do I look like a hero to you?"

"Fair point, Tall-Dark-'n-Creepy. Then again, I think it's probably a stretch to call any of the Avengers superheroes. Maybe Spangles, but he's got the American flag so far up his ass it's hard to tell."

"You really don't like him, do you?"

"Long story, complete with tales of shitty childhood and daddy issues. You didn't answer the question. What's with the brace?"

He sighs. "I'm fine. My wrist was shattered but I got the pieces back enough in place that it should heal on its own within the week if I'm careful. Other than that there's nothing too bad—I'm not as fragile as you."

"Hey!"

"Stark, it's true. My tissue is at least four or five times denser than your own, and my healing process is significantly faster."

"Yeah, well, you can still get addicted to morphine . Remember that?"

"That was not _addiction,_ that was _dependency._ There's a difference."

"Yeah, whatever. Just stay away from opiates in the future."

"Am I _ever_ going to hear the end of that?"

"Loki," the man suddenly becomes serious, "you tried to kill yourself with an overdose. I'm not going to just forget about it."

His cheeks grow hot in shame, and he drops his head back into his arms.

Stark's voice grows softer again when he speaks. "Look, I know it's not something that you're proud of, but running away from shit's not going to make it any better. I'll openly list this as something I never, _ever_ thought I'd say as of a year ago, but I worry about you, Loki."

Wh-? Why would the mortal even care? He's long since broken, and he's well aware of that, so why does the man keep acting like somehow there's something left that could possibly matter? The woman talks like that too, sometimes, although not as much. What do humans think they are?

"I'm fine, Stark." Admittedly, he doesn't do a fantastic job of keeping his voice nonchalant.

"Bullshit. You're a fucking trainwreck, and it doesn't take a genius to see that. Stop lying to yourself."

The embers in his chest that never truly stop burning flare up again in anger as he raises his head to glare at the man. "How _dare_ you speak to me in such a fashion, mortal wretch?"

"Because," the mortal says, sliding the sunglasses off his face for him and tossing them with a clatter onto the nightstand, "nobody else is going to, and you need a reality check."

"I do n–" He's cut off mid-protest.

"Yeah, you do. See, funny thing is, I don't generally drag people home with me and play doctor to them for a week if I don't care about the outcome, but you're so determined to wallow in self-pity that you're totally oblivious. Talk to me, Loki; I can't help otherwise."

"I don't want to discuss this now, Stark."

"No, and you're not ever going to want to. Now cowboy up and do it anyway."

"I…" To be honest, he doesn't know what the man wants him to say. His instincts scream at him to run.

"You said suicide isn't a word on Asgard. What's it called?"

Loki looks down, a lifetime of resentment creeping into his expression. "Cowardice," he says with a bitter laugh.

A hand squeezes his own reassuringly. "Loki, that's not it at all. You're not a coward."

He doesn't grace that lie with a response.

After a pause, the man speaks again. "You never told me why you wanted to. Would you?"

*'*'*

Something heartbreaking flickers across the god's face for a fraction of a second, so short that he almost misses it, and he waits quietly. He wants to talk, Tony can tell, but doesn't know how. That's fine, because it's not like he's going anywhere right now since he's stuck in this stupid hospital bed until everyone's convinced he's alright.

Loki lays his head back in his arms, which he gets. It's usually easier to talk about shit when you don't have to look at whoever you're speaking to.

"Your hair is getting ridiculously long," he notes to fill the silence, "you could probably play Rapunzel at this rate."

The god is tense when he finally speaks. "I just–… I just want it all to end."

"Want what to end?"

"The pain," he admits quietly. "I want the pain to stop."

Absentmindedly he works the asgardian's hair out of the tie and combs his fingers through it. Loki relaxes a tiny bit.

"I don't belong here, Stark; I don't belong on Midgard. I get by, but I can never truly fit in. The same was true for the palace of Asgard. My entire life has been a three-millennia-long political manipulation, ever since Odin kidnapped me as a babe, and Thor made even that purpose obsolete in a day's actions. I'm a ghost walking the waking world, no more."

"Wait, you were _kidnapped?_ I thought Thor said you were adopted!"

Loki laughs darkly and his grip on the sheets tightens. "Yes, well, it would seem on Asgard the two words are synonymous if the ever-perfect _Allfather_ decides to do it."

"Shit, man. I'd say sorry, but I'm pretty sure that's not going to make you feel any better."

"You would be correct, but I appreciate the sentiment." He shifts a little in his chair to get more comfortable. "Look, Stark. I have no future, no purpose—only a few years of hiding ahead of me until I'm inevitably found and then either put to death or tortured for the rest of my many years. At least if I end it myself, I can stay in control for my last few moments. I'm suffocating as it is, with so much energy building up inside of me, and everything that made me _Loki_—my magic, my title, my sight… that's all gone. It's not even that I want to die, I just want to stop half-existing."

Tony's not entirely sure what to say to that. "You belong in the tower, Loki, laughing at stupid jokes and throwing things at me when I'm being irritating. I'm not going to let you get dragged back to Asgard or to a SHIELD prison."

The god rests his hand over the one still running through his jet black hair. "Stark, I could explain myself to you a thousand times, in a thousand languages, and you'd still not understand me. I have never, not once in my life, been good enough for anyone. Not strong enough, not loud enough, not bright enough, and in the end it turns out that no matter how hard I tried I never could be. I was _born_ inferior." He looks up, trembling.

"You're good enough for me, you know. And my standards aren't exactly low."

If Loki's last laugh had been dark, then this one is a fucking black hole. "You wish to know the truth? The truth is that I'm not a god."

"…Now you've lost me."

"I'm not a god, Stark, I'm not even Æsir. Odin didn't just take me from some noble's home, or even a peasant's; he stole me from Jötunheim during the war." Loki's voice is shaking with anger and he could swear that for half a second the god's eyes turn red. The madness that seems to have been receding over the past months is back with a terrifying vengeance. "I am a _monster,_ Stark, born and bred. My blood is cursed. I _deserve_ to die."

Fuck if that's not the most terrifying expression he's ever seen.

"Loki, that's the furthest thing from true. I've met monsters, and believe me when I say you're not one of them.'

"You _don't understand–!"_

_"Then try to explain!"_

The god looks lost in thought for a few moments, trying to find a way to do so. "Fine," he says emotionlessly, "let me compare it like this. Nazi Germany, during the Captain's time? Think of that as Asgard."

"Fun picture."

Loki glares and, okay, that might have been bad timing.

"Imagine you were Hitler's son. Imagine you were raised your entire life hating the Jews, were trained to kill them and saw it as a noble cause, because they are abominations and filth. That was Thor and me. I remember one day as a child, when father told us of the war between Jötunheim and Asgard, Thor saying that when he was king, he'd "hunt the monsters down and slay them all" with the biggest grin on his face. It had always been in my plans to help him. Together, the two of us would rid the realms of that scourge.

"I was raised to hate the Jews. My bedtime stories were filled with monsters who would steal bad children and cook them for supper if they were feeling kind, or otherwise torture them for sport—I won't get into the details, but the tales would be considered fairly gruesome for your children.

"Now imagine if you went to fight the Jews one day, alongside your brother and his friends, and in the middle of the battle discovered by mistake that you yourself were Jewish."

Oh.

Fuck.

"Increase that to a godly scale, throw in the fact that the monstrosity is true instead of some political machination, and you have an incredibly vague sense of why I want to die. Among other things."

"Damn, Loki…"

"I don't want your _pity,"_ he spits.

"Well fuck you then, because if I want to sympathize then I'm damn well going to. I'm not doing it in the looking-down-on-you way though, alright? For once in your life, just let someone care without biting their head off."

_"WHY?"_

"Because I'm trying to help you!"

"What if I can't be helped? I'm a monster, Stark, and I deserve to die. Were you to run me through with a knife right now, you'd be doing me a favor. When I look in the mirror, all I see is the lie Odin created to hide the truth from me whilst telling me how horrible a creature I truly am." His hazel eyes are red with tears and filled with wild desperation. "Why don't you understand that?"

Tony tilts the god's chin up, forcing his gaze toward him. He really wishes Loki could see right now, because it would feel a lot more effective that way. "Because it's not true. You know how I know that? Because monsters don't buy homeless kids crepes. Monsters don't play violin in Central Park, or drive themselves crazy trying to keep from hurting people, or risk getting caught by crazy government organizations to see their friend in the hospital."

"I–…"

"You're not a monster. Whatever planet you're from. You're Loki, and god knows that involves a lot of crazy shit, but being a monster isn't part of it."

Loki stands and starts pacing like he tends to do when his emotions are running rampant, which Tony's noticed are one thing he's not very good at dealing with. Something tells him that this is just scratching the surface or the god's issues, which scares him, because the tip of the iceberg isn't very pretty.

"C'mere, Rudolph."

He glances up and Tony pats the bed beside him. Reluctantly, the god sits, and Tony shifts (with a grimace as the movement pulls at the stitches in his leg) to rub his shoulders. The contact does its job in calming him a bit, although certainly not all the way.

"I don't know what to do," Loki admits.

"Then we'll figure it out, okay? I'll help. Hell, I bet Pepper will too if you ask her."

"Why couldn't I have been like Thor?"

"Because then you'd be boring and blonde. Trust me, you're better this way."

"Is that so?" He doesn't sound convinced.

"Yeah. It is. You're funny and talented and fucking brilliant, and if that's not seen as the best combination on Asgard then they're all idiots. Seriously, the rate you sped through learning math and science and shit? I've never seen anyone do that before. You're incredible."

Loki doesn't really seem to know what to do with that. At all.

"Shit, has nobody ever told you that before?"

The god just looks away.

"Damn, Asgard sucks. I hate Asgard."

"That makes two of us."

"Well fuck all of them because you're awesome. Will you promise me something?"

"Hmm?"

"Next time you start feeling really bad," Tony says, wrapping his arms around the god from behind, "tell me. Don't just hole up in your room like I know you tend to do. Believe it or not, I do care, and I hate knowing that most of the time you suffer alone. Been there, done that; it sucks."

"You make no sense."

"I try not to. One more thing."

Loki glances back at him, eyes narrowed. "You have many requests today."

"Yeah, well, shit needed to be said. Probably should have said it months ago, but hindsight's twenty/twenty and all that jazz. Wait, have you seen Chicago?"

He shakes his head.

"Right, well, we're so watching it later—it's so your sort of thing. Lots of manipulation. Anyway, and I'm being one hundred percent serious here, if you ever get another urge to kill yourself, come talk to me. Even if you don't think it will help, even if it's just another passing thought, swear that you'll let me know."

"I…" The god hesitates, gazing down at his hands where they're folded in his lap. "That's not an easy thing to agree to."

"I know, but I also know that I've caught you looking over the edge of the balcony just a little too thoughtfully before."

He looks down again, cheeks flushing.

Tony rests his forehead on the god's shoulder and sighs. "Please? You know I'll never make fun of you for it, I get that it's not something you can help."

Reluctantly, the god nods. "Alright. Fine. I swear…"

"Thank you."

"Mhmm."

"And thanks for trusting me enough to talk about it. I know it's not easy."

"Yeah." Loki leans back against him, relaxing a little. "Can we talk about something else now?"

"Like what?"

"Like how you should give me the cookie off that dinner tray."

Tony smacks him on the arm. "You're such an asshole, Rudolph. I'm the one in the hospital!"

"Yes, well," he laughs, still a little strained but definitely more himself than before, "I broke my wrist for you, and I'm hungry. I'm also technically in the hospital. Cookie. Now."

With a long-suffering sigh, he hands it over. Loki grins.

–––

Pepper knocks the door three sharp times, then swings the door open with a squeak that casts the blue-white light from the hallway into the dark room. She finds Tony sitting with his tablet working on a project for the company, and Loki asleep on the bed beside him.

"You know, I think those are meant for one person."

"Eh, we had a manly heart-to-heart. I wasn't going to kick him out."

She laughs and sits in the chair beside the bed, holding out a bouquet of flowers and speaking quietly so as not to wake the slumbering god. "From Happy."

"Aww, I'm touched. Is he proposing, or what? I want a ring. Lots of diamonds."

"Not as far as I'm aware. I think we need to talk, though."

"Oh god, you're using The Voice. What did I do?"

"Nothing. At least, nothing bad. You're always doing things."

"Are you sure?" He's not convinced. She doesn't seem upset, but still… when someone says 'we need to talk,' it's never that they're trying to decide on which flavor ice cream to buy.

Pepper nods. "This is probably going to sound bad, but just trust me, okay?"

Oh god.

"You know I've been having a hard time with you being Iron Man, and with how reckless you get."

"Wait, wait, are you about to break up with me?"

She sighs. "Just hear me out, okay?"

"You're breaking up with me."

"God, Tony, just listen!"

He shuts up, stomach dropping.

"Look, I love you. You know that. I'm just not sure we're _in_ love. I'm not about to walk out or anything, because I do care about you and you're my best friend, but—and I don't think you're really getting this at this point—I think you care about someone else more. I'm not entirely sure in what way, but there's definitely something going on and I don't want to get in the way if you could be happier with them."

Huh? "What do you mean? You're the only person I've ever been able to keep a steady relationship with."

She looks pointedly at the god beside him.

"Loki?"

Pepper nods.

"He's a dude. And we're friends."

"Oh for the love of– I've seen how you look at him, Tony. You sat with him for a week nursing him back to health, you've changed your whole lifestyle around him, and you even _built him a suit._ Don't tell me there's nothing there. Like I said, I don't know _what's_ there, but there's something."

He turns that over in his mind, trying to figure out if there's any truth to it, and honestly doesn't know. Does he care about the god? Sure. The guy's got some serious issues, but he's not a bad person, and deserves a hell of a lot better than he's been dealing with in the past. That doesn't mean he's in love or anything, though.

"Just think it over, okay? I know you pretty well, enough to realize when something changes like this."

"…are you sure?"

"Yes, Tony. I'm sure. Could it just be a really close friendship? Yeah, possibly, but if it's more than that I don't want you feeling guilty about it."

He brushes a stray lock of raven hair out of the god's face, thinking over her words, but can't come to a conclusion. Loki has always confused him, and this is no different. Stupid Asgardian gods.

"Now I'm just confused."

She laughs. "Why am I not surprised?"

"You're awfully calm about all of this."

"I've seen it coming, I think."

"That's a little disconcerting."

"Sorry. I didn't want to say anything until I was sure."

"I'm not sure I'm gay, Pep."

"I'm not saying you want to take him to bed, just that I think you like him. They're not necessarily the same thing."

"This is weird."

Pepper laughs again, and it's genuine. "That's you in a nutshell."

*'*'*

Loki wakes once more to fingers running through his hair, and sighs quietly. Why did the mortal have to bring that up? He's been trying to ignore the urges, and while it hasn't been completely successful, it's still not something he likes to face. All it's done is confuse him as to what to do next time, and if he really should go to the man. He's made an oath now, though, so he has to. Loki isn't entirely sure what made him promise to do so, and he vaguely regrets it, but at the same time… it would be nice to have the reassurance.

For now, he settles for turning over to look towards the man, feeling a bit calmer for the dreamless rest. He always sleeps better when the mortal is nearby, because the knowledge that an ally is present eases the constant edge that he's developed after a few too many ambushes during hunts. It's why he tends to fall asleep on the sofa at night.

Loki laughs quietly. "I think I preferred the bed in your room, although I was a bit uncomfortable at the time. This one is rather small."

"Well, it's kind of made for one person, not a human and a psycho Norse deity. Have a nice nap?"

He gives an affirming hum.

"Glad the invasion of personal space worked out for at least one of us. Hey, I need help with a wiring problem. You up for a little geek time?"


	24. Eldritch

**_Author's Note:_**_ Sorry it's been so long between updates—I'm editing before I post, and school's been insane. After next Tuesday things should even out, though, and we'll be back to regular updates. At this point I'm just grabbing what little time I have between classes to do what I can, so I don't have much control over update speed._

* * *

Loki shows up the next three days—always at night, after visiting hours, he'll sneak in and sit next to the bed to work on his laptop or chat. How he manages to keep convincing the nurses to let him in he doesn't entirely know, although considering what he knows of the god, there's probably a good bit of charming, flattery, and playing the pity card involved. The guy has no shame when it comes to taking advantage of his blindness.

One night he brings a brailled version of Life (he really doesn't trust Tony not to cheat, which, well, come on—when you're playing with a god as smart as he is, sometimes it's the only way to win). Tony decides to skip college in the game because he's smart enough he doesn't need that, and proceeds to get the shittiest choice of jobs in the game. Loki somehow ends up with six kids, which apparently he finds hilarious despite the fact that two of them have to sit on top of the others because that many pegs don't fit into the little plastic car.

The next day Tony gets the god to rig his tablet up to the ancient CRT TV on the wall (he's so updating the whole hospital with new flatscreens when he gets out of here, because this is ridiculous). It takes a bit of weird wiring, but after twenty minutes of arguing over the best strategy they both sprawl out on Tony's bed to watch Chicago. As he'd predicted, once the god gets over complaining about the high-pitched whine of the TV Loki loves it and gets pretty opinionated about the characters.

Ever since he's gotten the suit, the god has been in a significantly better mood. He still fidgets and jumps at things Tony hardly even notices, but not nearly as much as before. Apparently the adrenaline helps ease the problems with excess energy. He hasn't seen Loki smile this much in a pretty long time, and it makes his current situation a little better. Seriously, he's fine, he doesn't need to be an in-patient, but apparently Pepper doesn't trust him to take it easy at home. Traitor.

Around two or two thirty they're usually asleep—the god either beside him or in the chair with his head in his arms on the bed, depending on which he finds more comfortable at the time—and when he wakes up in the morning, Loki is gone.

Friday night, at about two fifteen, Loki's chosen the latter and is fast asleep beside him. Tony stretches and yawns, then sets up another game of solitaire. Seriously, if he ever gets out of here, he's never going to be able to play this again considering how many times he has in the past few days.

Ever since Pepper and he talked, he's been trying to figure out what the hell Loki is to him. Admittedly, he can kind of see where she's coming from, because he really has changed since Christmas. Maybe it's because the god is more like him than anyone he's ever met (although what it says about him that it's an alleged inter-planetary war criminal he's so similar to he doesn't know).

Watching the god work is possibly one of the most fascinating things he's ever seen, because his thought process is so foreign, but still makes total sense. He wants to pick his brain apart to see what makes him tick. Loki's one of the first people he honestly can't figure out, even remotely. He's an impossible puzzle, and damn if that doesn't make him want to solve him even more.

There's a quiet knock on the door, and it swings open to reveal— Oh, shit.

"Hey, Cap. What's up?"

Loki tenses just the slightest amount, unnoticeable to anyone who isn't sitting right next to him, but Tony knows he's woken up. Thankfully how he's resting his head his face is hidden by his arms and hair, but this still isn't an optimal situation.

"Sorry, I wouldn't have shown up this late, but knowing you I figured you'd be awake."

"Yep, you figured right. Is there a reason you're here, or am I just awesome enough that you couldn't resist my gorgeous face?"

Steve gives a long-suffering sigh, crossing his arms. "I haven't gotten to come by since the fight, I just wanted to see how you're doing. With Banner in Haiti and Thor back on Asgard, half the team is missing and that leaves us with a pretty big disadvantage."

"Good to know it's not because you just wanted to hang out and watch a movie or anything, I think I might have had a heart attack."

"Cut it out, Stark; if you keep treating the team like you do it's not going to help your case when Fury gets pissed at you again."

"I'm terrified. Shaking in my boots. Well, I would be if I wore boots regularly and had them on in bed."

The soldier just raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.

"Okay, I get it. And I'm fine, Pep says another day or two, they'll take out the stitches, and I'll be able to _finally_ get my ass out of here. Do you have any idea how awful hospital food is? I'm so sick of it, it should be a criminal offense to serve shit that has so little taste. I feel like I'm eating cardboard."

"Don't complain; you didn't have to deal with military rations. _That's_ bad food. Who's your friend? I didn't realize you had anyone spending the night."

Shifting into B.S. mode, he smiles slightly. "That's Lachlan."

"The guy from the fight?"

"The one and only."

Steve nods. "He wasn't half bad, I'll admit. With the way he took the impact, I'm surprised it's not _him_ in the hospital."

"Yeah, well, as he loves to point out, he _is_ technically in the hospital right now. He doesn't seem to get that it doesn't entitle him to the only things on my dinner tray that taste good."

"Why does that seem like the sort of person you'd be friends with?" He laughs.

"Shut up, he's awesome."

"If you say so. Want to play something other than solitaire?"

Wait, is he actually trying to be sociable? Wow. He almost wants to take him up on the offer.

"Sorry, man, not tonight. It's time for me to turn in. Tomorrow, maybe?"

"Yeah, sure. See you around."

Tony waves, and the door shuts behind him. Loki immediately sits up, his breaths uneven.

"Woah, hey, it's alright."

The god closes his eyes and focuses on calming himself, although his nails still dig into his palms. Tony rests a hand over his, rubbing circles with his thumb until the god relaxes.

"You okay?"

He nods and runs a hand through his hair. "Sorry, that was just a bit… unexpected. I'm not one to enjoy being caught unawares with little means of escape."

"Yeah, I get it. Not gonna lie, I was a little freaked out too."

"Worried of what the good Captain would think if you were caught with your arch enemy?"

Tony shrugs. "Less the being with the enemy part and more the part where I've got a nice row of stitches in my leg and I probably shouldn't be sprinting down a hall trying to get away."

"You think you would be in danger?"

"Blitzen, I'm hanging out with you, willingly, and calling you a friend. They're going to think I've been mind-controlled or something, and I don't really want to deal with unhappy Avengers."

"I suppose that is fair."

Loki's giving him a funny look, and he can't quite decipher what it means. "Something on your mind, buddy?"

"What you said to the Captain…"

"Which part, you stealing my food, or not playing cards?"

"No, the other part about myself."

"What, that you're awesome? It's true, you kind'a are."

The god just looks confused.

"Oh for fuck's sake. Stop beating yourself up about shit and get it through your thick alien skull that you're not half bad."

"You seemed to think I am when I get hungry," he says with a slightly forced smirk.

"Because you take my food! You're the one who can actually go grab a snack from the coffee shop or something! Oh, hey, that's a good idea, actually. You should totally bring me coffee if you come tomorrow night. Just saying."

"You're insufferable, you flea-bitten lout."

"I try."

–––

Despite his protests, Loki does actually show up with lattes, scones, and fruit the next day.

–––

Sunday afternoon, he's _finally_ discharged from the hospital—albeit with strict instructions not to run or get the suit out—and home has never looked so awesome. Has he ever mentioned how beautiful his tower is? Because it's damn gorgeous.

"Loki? Hey, Loki!"

He's is nowhere to be found, so Tony goes god-hunting.

He finds Loki sprawled out on his bed fast asleep, legs half-tangled in the blue and grey blankets and ebony hair unfurled behind him. Will it ever stop being weird to see the god while he's sleeping? It's the only time the tension finally drains from his body, when he looks even remotely at peace.

Deciding not to wake him up for the moment, Tony goes to the kitchen to find something to eat. He's _starving._ Surprisingly, the cabinets are all fully stocked—Loki must have gone shopping or something—so he makes a couple peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and grabs a bag of chips, then heads down to the workshop. He's fallen pretty far behind since he's been away, even working on the tablet, because when it comes down to it, he's a hands-on sort of guy. Things tend to work better if he can play around with them a bit.

Two hours pass to the tune of AC/DC and the smell of solder, although there's a distinct lack of chaos from the chaos god so he decides to go investigate. There's always the chance that he's setting up some elaborate trick (it hasn't happened yet, but Tony's gotten to know him well enough that he's pretty sure it will eventually, and that it won't be pleasant when it does). To his surprise, Loki is still asleep, curled up around a pillow.

He sits on the edge of the bed and rubs the god's shoulder gently. "Loki, wake up…"

With a displeased sound the asgardian rolls over to face the other way. Tony laughs quietly.

"C'mon, wake up, Dasher."

Loki moans and covers his head with the pillow. "Go 'way."

"Aww, is that the way to treat your poor host, who's been in the hospital for a week?"

"Mhmm…" He curls up again.

"You're such an asshole, I swear to god. Stop being a pain in the backside."

He turns back over with a huff, bleary-eyed and scowling. It's not incredibly effective, since the bedhead kind of cancels out the glare. "Go 'way or 'm gonna kick you hard enough t' send you back to the hospital, jus' so I can go back t' sleep…"

"I'm hurt, Loki, I really am. You wound me."

"Wha' time is it?"

"Like four thirty in the afternoon, how the hell did you even sleep this late?"

The god sits up sluggishly, still not entirely awake yet and his black shirt slightly askew. "You weren't around, didn't have to be up."

"You are so weird."

"Asgard's days are longer, 'm used to sleeping fourteen or sixteen hours a night."

"Oh. Huh. Didn't think about that."

"Mhmm."

"You're really not a morning person, are you? Or afternoon person, since technically it's pretty late in the day."

"I hate everything…" he says in answer, stretching and brushing hair out of his face.

"I thought we established that back in December, didn't we?"

The god makes a noncommittal sound, and Tony laughs. Loki swats at him half-heartedly.

"Nice room, by the way." He hasn't really been in here since the asgardian moved in, but it kind of suits him. The bookshelves are full, and everything is remarkably organized. Apparently at some point he brought the little altar-y thing from his apartment, so that's sitting against wall, there's a really comfy looking armchair, and lots of candles for some reason. Who knows. The god's crazy.

Loki rubs his eyes and looks toward him thoughtfully. "May I ask you something?"

"Depends on what it is, I guess."

The god reaches out and rests a hand on his chest. "Long ago, I asked you about the device that was here, but you would not speak of it. What was it, and why is it gone now?"

"It…" Tony hesitates, not comfortable with the subject. "That's a long story."

"I have time."

He sighs. Loki's showed quite a bit of trust in speaking to him about himself over the past days. It's only fair that he do the same. "Five or six years ago, I wasn't the same person I am now."

"Nor was I."

"I was known as the Merchant of Death," he starts, and Loki decides to comment.

"I like the name."

"Yeah, well, of course you do. Anyway, Stark Industries specialized in weapons manufacturing for the United States Armed Forces. I had a talent for making increasingly efficient, deadly missiles and guns, and wasn't really that worried about the fallout. I was rich, partied twenty-four/seven, and generally was an awful person to everyone.

"Then one day I was out in Afghanistan doing a weapons presentation and we were ambushed. I got hit with shrapnel, kidnapped, and would have died. Turns out a bulletproof vest isn't a match for a missile ten feet away from you that literally has your name on it."

"But you didn't die," Loki prompts.

It takes him a minute before he speaks again. He's never told anyone the entire story before, and it's never included much of the cave.

"I woke up in a cave hooked to a car battery with an electromagnet in my chest. There was a man named Yinsen…"

Slightly stiltedly, Tony tells the story in full for the first time. When he gets to the torture he shudders and can't continue for a few moments, Loki rests a hand on his back like he has for the god so many times now in the past, and waits patiently until he's able to go on.

It's hard to talk about, he finds, having to relive the fear and betrayal in his mind, but at the same time it's like a weight is lifted from his shoulders. Not keeping it as a horrible secret buried in his chest where the reactor once resided is something he hadn't realized would feel this freeing.

The Extremis incident in December he only skims, because it's not as important to the arc reactor story, explaining primarily the parts that are relevant to get to the end when he'd had it removed and his chest reconstructed.

After he finishes Loki sits quietly, contemplating his words.

"In trying to break you, they made you stronger."

"Guess so, yeah. I've never been able to figure out if I'm in some way thankful for it, because it made me the person I am—which I'll grudgingly admit is better than I was—but at the same time, you know…"

The god nods. "I understand. I've been through things that I feel the same about."

"You're probably the first person to say something like that. Everyone seems to either pity me, which I hate, or tell me to get over it, which I hate even more."

"We are much the same in some regards, I think."

"I'm not sure whether to be scared or comforted by that…"

"Perhaps a bit of both."

Tony fiddles with his hands, and his next words feel foreign on his tongue.. "Thanks for listening."

"Thank you for telling me."

"Yeah."

*'*'*

That night, Loki jerks awake at a scream. Disoriented, he tries to get his bearings in the familiar darkness, but it takes a moment. A bit concerned (because generally that sort of sound is a bad omen), he climbs to his feet and stumbles down the hall trying to wake up.

The god fumbles for the doorknob—it's been long enough since he last entered that the room is unfamiliar—and is met with a whimper, and Stark kicking out from the sound of it.

Norns…

He feels his way to the bed he'd fought his way through withdrawals in and crawls onto it to kneel beside the man, where his ragged breathing becomes all the more pronounced. Brushing his fingers over the mortal's cheek, he speaks soothingly.

"Stark… wake up, 'tis just a dream…"

He whimpers again and kicks out. Loki rests a hand on his neck, stroking gently with his thumb, and tries again.

"Wake up, Stark…"

The mortal startles back into awareness, bewildered and panting.

"It's alright, just breathe."

Loki can feel him nod after a moment. A hand covers his own and he turns it to lace his fingers with Stark's, giving a reassuring squeeze.

"S-Sorry if I woke you…"

"It's alright." He shifts to a more comfortable position. "Was it the cave?"

Stark shudders and shakes his head. "Battle."

"The chitauri?"

He flinches at the name. "No, the… god, I don't even know what to call it. The darkness, the void…"

Loki's head snaps to stare towards him. "I'm sorry?"

"It was…" The mortal searches for words, but can't find them.

"An absence of everything and nothing. Incomprehensible, infinitely vast, so silent that your heartbeat is deafening. Impossibly _wrong_ beyond comprehension."

"How do you–?"

He looks away. "As I said months ago—I fell. Into the abyss between Yggdrasil's branches. I've been there too."

The grip on his hand tightens. "How do you cope?"

"I don't. There is no way to recover from that."

"Eldritch abominations."

"If you like, yes," he says with a nod, and shivers. "When did you see it?"

"The battle—it's how we ended it. The council decided the solution was to nuke the city, so I flew the bomb up through the portal. Thought I was gonna die out there, I honestly don't know how I managed to fall back in time before Tasha shut it down, but you don't forget what's out there. I can't stand silence anymore; it's why there's almost always music on."

Loki nods slowly. "I understand. What you feel, after that. How it's always hovering in your peripheral and you can never shake free of the terror."

"I'm cracking up, Loki, and not in the fun laughing way. I don't know how to deal with it. Maybe I would have gone to a shrink or some shit, but nobody can help with something like this."

He tugs the mortal's shirt to get him to sit up, then after a moment of hesitation wraps his arms around him. Stark leans into the contact, resting his forehead on Loki's chest, still trembling with the aftereffects of the nightmare.

"Focus on the present. You're not there anymore, you're not alone, you're safe. This realm is no longer connected to that place. It is solid and here around you; the laws of Yggdrasil hold true."

"How long were you there?"

"I don't know," Loki admits, "time does not exist there as it does amongst the ash tree's branches. Two of your years had passed when I arrived here, but that means little. I was there long enough to go insane and then find my mind again."

"Shit."

"There are some things, once broken, that can never be mended. Seeing that place is one of them."

"We're fucked up for good, yeah," he murmurs.

"Mhmm. But we're survivors."

"They say what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, but whoever 'they' is obviously hasn't lived through very much shit."

"Agreed—what doesn't kill you is more than likely to scar your psyche."

"Hooray for being fucking train wrecks…"

Loki sighs. "I believe that may be a severe understatement."


	25. Forge

"I was wondering where you'd wandered off to," the mortal comments as Loki drops a couple inches onto the landing pad.

"Out."

"Thanks for that incredibly informative explanation. I couldn't have figured that out on my own." His voice is practically dripping with sarcasm.

"I decided to rob a bank. Lots of screaming and running around, followed by everyone cowering in the corner. Fantastic chaos."

"Wait, you did _what?"_

"For Valhalla's sake, Stark, that was a joke. Although it does sound like quite good fun… Maybe another day." Loki steps down into the disassembly unit, rolling his shoulders and stretching once it finishes.

"Um, yeah, how about no?"

"How about you're no fun?"

"But I'm also not doing the Cellblock Tango, am I?"

He smirks. "Rules are meant to be broken."

"Didn't your mom ever tell you that stealing is bad?"

"Of course. I was never very good at listening to silly things like that, though, not when the alternative provided so much entertainment." Loki meanders inside, the mortal's steps following after.

"Where you goin' now?"

"Are you really this bored?"

"Ah… yeah. Pretty much."

He sighs. "I'm going to go change into something more suited to it, and then go down to the workshop to finish what I started day before yesterday."

"I wanna see!"

"Oh for the love of– fine." It's a descriptor he's used before, but really the best one when it comes to Stark—the mortal is downright insufferable. With an irritated glance, Loki goes to change into jeans and whatever shirt happens to be on top in his dresser. He pushes up the sleeves so they'll be out of the way, and instead straps on a pair of simple leather bracers he'd made back when he'd first started doing anything physical rather than computer-based in the workshop, partly to hide the scars on his arms, but largely because while he may be more resilient than a human, he learned as a child that sparks and sharp edges do still hurt. The god grabs a pair of leather gloves as well, but he relies on touch enough that he'll likely only use them briefly.

When he returns to the common room, pulling his hair back to keep it from getting singed or in the way, Stark is waiting impatiently.

_"Finally._ I thought you'd decided to take a nap or something."

Loki doesn't grace that with a response, instead heading downstairs with the mortal close on his heels.

"I'm not doing anything _that_ exciting, you do realize."

"Oh, come on. I've barely watched you work because I've been doing other shit; I'm curious. Wait, since when do we have a forge in here?"

He raises an eyebrow as he lights a bit of kindling with a match and eases coal in until he has a decent flame.

"Coal? Really? Gas is so much easier."

"Coal is quieter, more efficient, and burns hotter. So yes, I prefer coal. Considering I'm the one using it and not you, I do believe that it's my preferences which matter more."

Ignoring the following one-sided debate he rifles through a pile of metal to find the piece he'd been working with before. He'd not gotten very far, seeing as he'd started later in the day and gone to visit the mortal that evening, but he's been looking forward to finishing it. While it may be significantly more difficult to do blind, this is something he's familiar with and has always enjoyed doing.

He can't tell when the metal is glowing brightly enough, so he has to guess based on the heat and the time passed. Once Loki feels it has (Stark is the sort to calculate everything in his head, but personally, he finds metalwork to be an art rather than a science), he removes it from the forge and sets to work, replacing it in the flame when it starts to cool in order to keep it malleable.

"So… what'cha makin'?"

Loki laughs. "You call yourself a genius—figure it out for yourself."

Some time passes, in which the gloves find their use as he tests the shape of the piece, then the mortal finally seems to get it.

"Wait a sec, are you making weapons in my house?"

Loki smirks. "Technically so do you, considering your suit and the explosives and lasers contained therein."

"Should I be concerned?"

"Not unless you plan to threaten me," he replies with a shrug. "The only knives I currently own were purchased, and while they are acceptable, I don't have a full set. I prefer to forge my own, anyway. I'm picky when it comes to shape and balance, and trust my own work more than that of others."

"Now you just sound like me."

Having finished forging the blade, Loki cuts the other end of the metal down and starts working out the tang. "Yes, I've started to see that. It is a pity you don't use knives; they're far superior to your suit in many ways."

"Did you just say that a little scrap of metal is better than my brilliant feat of engineering?"

"Can you keep your suit hidden under your clothing, so that at any unforeseen threat you can defend yourself? Or carry it in any way discreetly, for that matter? What about cutting down enemies silently, from nearby or at a distance? Your suit may have its benefits, but a blade is far more practical."

"Okay, just wondering then, why the hell do you seem to always have one whenever you're spooked? Because that's a little scary, not gonna lie."

Setting down his work, he smiles, and lets the knife that he'd transferred earlier from his sleeve to his bracer slide down into his hand. Turning it handle-out, he offers it to the mortal.

"I am never completely defenseless."

"So, what, you always carry a knife? That's gotta be a pain getting through airport security," he comments, taking the blade.

_"A_ knife? Stark, you are truly a fool if you think I only have one. Boots are quite fantastic places to carry them, up your sleeve like the one you hold was, tucked into your belt, on the inside of your coat, hanging from a cord around your neck hidden under your shirt, strapped onto your legs… the list goes on."

"Holy fuck. Now I'm kind'a terrified."

"And how do you carry your suit?"

"Shut up."

Turning back to finish the last few strokes of his work, he chuckles. "See? Knives have their advantages."

"Okay, fine, you have a point. No pun intended."

"I'm a god, Stark—I'm always right."

"Now you just sound like a thirteen-year-old. How do you even do that blind? Holy shit."

"Centuries of blade-forging tend to help."

With the first done he finds the next piece of metal—a little smaller than the first—and turns back to the forge. A stool with a missing foot scrapes across the concrete floor and the mortal hops up onto it, tilting it back and forth on its uneven legs and causing the metal to tap obnoxiously. Threatening to throw a piece of hot charcoal at him if he doesn't stop seems to do the trick, though.

Loki continues his work, chatting occasionally with Stark when the man isn't focused on whatever project he's working on, until all sixteen blades are forged and the edges ground down to smooth, deadly points. The mortal turns around a little while later to find him acid-etching them.

"Wait a sec, blindy, how the hell are you doing that?"

He glances up, one eyebrow quirked. "Can you write a word or two with your eyes closed?"

"Well, yeah."

"Exactly. I'm not going to attempt to engrave dragons or anything of the sort; it's just runes."

"Why are you doing it on the tang, though? It's just going to get covered when you finish the handle."

With a patronizing smile, Loki holds up one of the half-finished knives. "These are just steel, and thus relatively weak. However, as I am currently incapable of acquiring a better metal—adamantium or uru would be possibly the best options, although there are other satisfactory metals in the realms—I have to make do with what you keep here. The runes aren't decorative; they're to reinforce the strength and resistance of the blades."

"So, what, you just write on them and they're magically stronger?"

"Oh, Stark…" he says with a long-suffering sigh, "you are so _human."_

"Hey! Humans are awesome, don't bash us!"

"You are also remarkably narrow-minded. Runic inscriptions involve–" he casts about for the term. "Valkyries, there isn't a word for it in your language. It involves the base forces of Yggdrasil and the inherent power of properly written runes. Scribbling the shapes isn't enough; one must have the correct willpower to give them their strength."

There's silence, and mortal is probably using some expression or another that's supposed to mean something.

"Whatever face you're making, I regret to inform you that I am incapable of seeing it."

"Shut up, it's just habit. And you totally lost me there."

"Which is exactly why I called your kind narrow-minded. You need to learn to be more accepting of concepts you do not understand, for it is the only way to learn."

"Learn what?"

"If someone on the street told you that it was possible for them to will a sheet of paper into flames, what would you say?"

"That they were crazy."

"Precisely, yet there are those among you who can do that very thing. Only a handful, maybe seven or eight at most, and none in what would be seen by the masses as normal parts of first-world countries that I know of. They are shamans or sorcerers in cultures that believe in such things—faith is a strong force because it can tap into the mother ash. The few who have noticeable power grew up knowing the truth of the realms, their minds not molded by European skepticism. Humankind sabotaged themselves, when it comes down to it."

"Whoops."

He laughs. "Whoops indeed. It's not as though it could be suddenly reintroduced, though, because people inherently fear the unknown. A survival instinct, true, but detrimental in many ways. They're scared of anyone with strength they cannot understand." Finished with the acid on his fourth knife, he cleans the wax off and moves on to coating the next.

"Like the whole mutant thing, yeah."

"That is an intriguing evolutionary leap, I must say. It will be interesting to watch events play out and see which genes take hold and which don't."

"It's so weird every time I remember that you live for like, ever, and can see that stuff happen over time."

"Hardly. I'll be killed eventually; I am not invincible. Such is the way of otherwise immortal warriors."

"That's depressing."

"Not really. It's far less so than your limited lifespan."

"Shut up."

"It's true, though. In comparison to those of the other realms, your kind practically die as infants."

"Okay, now definitely shut up. A hundred years is a damn long time."

He gazes in the mortal's direction, just thinking for a minute, then goes back to etching. "I suppose your mortality does have its benefits, though. Your culture changes at a lightning pace. It is impressive."

"Ha! That's better. Bathe in our awesome glory and be jealous."

"Whatever you say… Are those runes even?" Loki holds one of the knives out to the man. "They feel it, but it's hard to tell."

"Yep, look good."

"My thanks." He picks up eight of them, weighing each now-cooled blade to ensure the balance is correct, and smiles. "I've missed these."

"Care to share with the class?"

"Stark, are you admitting that you are but a student? I am impressed."

There's a pause. "I'm sticking my tongue out at you, Loki."

"How mature—thank you for proving my point." With an short clank he sets those in his hand down, then offers a different blade. It's perfectly symmetrical, ground to the sharpest point Loki's learned to make in a couple thousand years of practice, and once the handle is wrapped it will be the weight and balance he's found to be his favorite. He's rather proud of it, actually, because it took a bit longer to make with a lot of trial and error, but even blind he managed to do a decent job. The runes are etched deeply into the steel—thurisaz first and foremost, along with sowilo, algiz, mannaz, inguz… the list goes on. He managed a few strengthening symbols as well, although most of them are too complex to do blindly. They would make beautifully intricate designs if he were able, but alas. No longer can he engrave dragons and wolves into his blades, nor horses, serpents, and phoenixes into his armor. 'Tis a pity.

But this blade is well-crafted and will suit his purposes nicely.

The mortal lifts it, and he can only assume the man is inspecting the craftsmanship. "Not bad. Need to harden it, though."

"Oh for the love of– I know how to harden and temper metal, idiot mortal, I just haven't gotten that far yet."

"Gotcha, sorry—I'm not used to dealing with people who can keep up. Stop being smart, dammit, you're throwing off my groove."

"You're very welcome."

He begins to build something to heat the blades in for hardening them, and Stark watches.

"That is… not how I'd do it. Interesting, though."

"It's more effective than human methods—your kind is so obsessed with innovation that you lose the instinctual side of things."

"Fair enough, I guess. Although I still hold to the fact that math is awesome."

He laughs and shoves the man lightly. "Narrow-minded peon."

"Stupid asshole."

*'*'*

Stark reappears again to find Loki sprawled out on the couch with the dagger blade between his knees, a leather cord in each hand, and a third held between his teeth, wrapping an intricate pattern to form the hilt.

"Holy shit, overkill enough?"

Loki tries to tell him to hang on, but it comes out a bit unfortunately with the cord in his mouth. A couple minutes later he's wrapping the ending tails back in, and can speak intelligibly. "Trust me, there are more complicated methods. My primary set of knives on Asgard that I carried most of the time were better, generally engraved and either embedded or inlaid with a few jewels, and a more sparing leather wrap for grip, but I'm not able to do that sightlessly. This is comfortable, though, and looks nice for those of you who can still see, so it will do." He tosses the dagger in the air and catches it after a flip, nodding approvingly.

"How does that even work? It's fucking insane. I'm a _genius_ and I don't get how it wraps like that."

With a smile, Loki offers him one of the mid-sized knives and a roll of cord. "I'll show you a slightly easier one, if you like."

It's not like he's going to say no to learning shit from a god, especially since he doesn't offer very often. Tony sits down beside him, taking the leather and blade.

"This is going to be a bit interesting to show you blind," the god says, taking another blade to use as an example, "but I'll do my best to explain."

Loki is actually a pretty good teacher, although as he said, things are a little difficult since he can't see what Tony is or isn't doing right. In the end they figure it out, though, and he's pretty proud of himself. It's definitely not the sort of thing he specializes in (and still feels kind of World of Warcraft or some shit), but it's kind of cool. He offers the knife back to the god and tells him as much, and he smiles again.

"Keep it."

"Wait, really?"

Loki shrugs. "I made more than I need, and you'd do well to keep a weapon on you more often. Give me your arm?"

"How many times do I have to remind you that I'm not a limb donor?"

"By Valhalla's mead…" the god says, laughing. "I'm not removing it. At least not if you cooperate."

"You freak me out sometimes, you know that?"

"It's a talent of mine." He reaches for a few strips of leather a bit wider than the cord and a couple inches long, cuts a handful of slits in each, then weaves cord through each individually and uses two more pieces that connect the four strips. "Okay, just hold your arm out? I'm not going to cut it off."

With a dramatic sigh, he agrees.

Loki ties the leather around his forearm, and loops the cord around once on each section.

"Hold the knife against the palm side of your forearm, facing downwards. Careful not to cut yourself—my blades are indiscriminate when it comes to drawing blood."

"Right…" He does as asked, though.

The god feels carefully for the position of the blade, holding the ends of the cord against Tony's wrist with his other hand to keep it from loosening. "This takes a little bit of practice to do effectively by yourself, but I'll try to break it down into steps…"

He shows him how to tie the knife down, using the loops of cord he'd already wrapped to keep the razor-sharp edge from cutting him by mistake, and wrap the remaining leather in a criss-crossed pattern back up to tie just under the outside of his elbow.

"It can be a little tricky at first to hold the knife and tie it at the same time, but you'll learn. Now, stand for a moment?"

Tony gets up, and Loki does as well.

"You can always tie it hilt-down on your left arm to pull out with your right hand, but that's both obvious in hostile situations and not always possible. Now, if you move your arm like this–" he gestures slightly, and the blade in his own sleeve slips down into his hand, "–it will dislodge the hilt from where it rests on the leather. The motion isn't one I can ever imagine you using by mistake, and in centuries I never have as it's rather precise, but be careful to keep your fingers out of the way until you're used to it and it becomes natural."

He tries it, being extremely careful not to get sliced (because he saw how easily one of Loki's knives could cut leather with hardly any pressure), and catches it which, while a little awkward the first few times, is actually surprisingly natural.

"Huh. That's actually kind of cool."

"It's come in handy on more than one occasion—the way it's tied is something I figured out over time, so very few realize that a blade can be hidden there and accessed so discreetly."

Wait, so, is this Loki's version of giving him a suit? Well fuck, that's a bit unexpected. Then again, Loki is sort of the king of never meeting expectations, so he probably shouldn't be surprised. The god shows him how to replace the knife without having to retie the leather, and has him try a few more times until he's convinced that he can effectively practice on his own.

"Very good. Especially for such a blinkered coxcomb such as yourself."

"See, I feel like that was supposed to be a compliment, but it kind of came off as an insult. You need to work on your people skills, Altair."

The god laughs, and redoes his ponytail since it had gotten a bit messed up during his time metalworking. "I am fantastic at diplomacy when I act as an envoy, I simply see no reason to do so at present."

"Thanks a ton."

"You're welcome," Loki replies with a cocky grin.

After a pause, he speaks. "Thank you though, seriously, for the knife. It's awesome."

"It does more good if you wear it consistently, as the entire point is to have a method of defense ready at all times. If you don't have long sleeves then it is not very effective as a hidden blade, but there are other ways to carry it concealed."

"You're kind of paranoid, you know."

"That 'paranoia' has saved my life on multiple occasions. I consider it simply staying prepared."

"Whatever you say, man."

Loki rolls his eyes and tries to shoo him off the couch where he's sat down again so the god can put his legs up. Tony's a bit lazy, though, and doesn't want to move (the sofa is plenty big for two people and can definitely fit at least four comfortably—Loki's just hogging the space), so the god apparently decides to ignore his presence and sprawls out on the couch again anyway, trapping Tony under his legs. When it becomes clear that Loki doesn't plan to shift anytime soon ,Tony leans back against the cushions with an irritated huff and stretches, closing his eyes. It's not really _that_ late, but he slowly sinks into dreams while the asgardian hums quietly to himself in the background.

* * *

_**Author's Note: **On the off-chance that you're curious, this is the hilt wrap that Loki teaches Tony (although he uses leather instead of paracord, since it's what he's familiar with having grown up on Asgard):  
flickr{{DOT}}com/photos/stormdrane/8057846208/in/photostream/lightbox/_


	26. Breaking

Loki sits outside on the balcony, wishing he could see the stars. Or the city lights, at least, as he imagines they likely drown them out. The wind is cool, but not cold enough to really do any harm—or good, really, because right now he wouldn't mind. He spins one of his smaller knives absentmindedly between his fingers. The familiar weight of it in his hand is comforting—makes him feel safer, even—since now he can carry what he's used to. It's kind of funny and kind of concerning at the same time how much the humans rely on trust to guard them. Even back on Asgard in the palace, he'd keep throwing knives strapped to his sleeve in plain view, in addition to the hidden dagger or two. He's had threats on his life before. Not that they remained as such for long—the 'warriors' of the realm are so concerned with honor that they'll almost always threaten him outright, and he's sparred enough with Thor to know how to defend himself from lumbering fools. There was the occasional poison or arrow, sure, but those were few and far between. He learned quickly as an older child how to protect himself from those attempts as well, and Barton is the first in millennia to do anything more than scratch him. Grudgingly, he'll admit that it was a clever trick.

The glass is a bit cold at his back, which is nice, since it grounds him a bit. So is the gentle rustling of the plants Stark keeps out here, because it was too quiet inside. It still is, a bit, but if he closes his eyes he can pretend he's back on Asgard before any of this happened. Just sitting on the roof of the palace and enjoying the reprieve from the constant activity below. He misses those days, when he was ignorant and naïve. Things were so much easier then.

With a sigh, he leans his head back to rest against the window he's sitting against. "Jarvis?"

"May I be of assistance?" asks the computer. Its voice is still just computerized enough to be disconcerting, but he's grown used to its presence.

"If Stark made someone swear to tell him if something was wrong, but he was asleep, would it be considered breaking the oath not to?"

"Unless he specified otherwise, then technically I believe it would."

_"Fjandinn…"_

"May I assume that person would be you?"

"It would be a correct assumption."

"Would you like me to wake him for you?"

"No… that would be cowardly. It would be better to do myself. Thank you for your aid."

"Of course."

Loki regrets the promise now, but it is too late to retract it. Slipping the knife back into his boot, he rises and finds the door back inside.

–––

Standing beside the bed, he wishes he'd kept the knife out. He opts for running a hand over the sheath on his arm, taking a breath to calm himself before he speaks quietly.

"Stark?"

The man doesn't respond, still asleep. Twice more he tries, still without success, and were it not for how he was raised he would have left. As it stands, he can't, because he keeps his word.

"Stark…"

"Lo'?" The man says, half-asleep. There's a pause where blankets shift. Everythin' okay?"

Unable to answer that question truthfully, Loki looks away. He keeps his expression carefully blank.

With a yawn, the mortal's feet scuff against the rug as he sits.

"I shouldn't have woken you, I'm sorry…"

"No, 's all good. Just gimme a sec to wake up."

Loki crosses his arms in front of his chest uncomfortably and tries to control the fight or flight instinct that's kicked in. He should never have promised this… well, actually, he only said he'd tell the mortal something was wrong, he never said he'd stay. Problem solved (sort of, as there's already damage done). He steps away, planning to leave, but Stark catches his arm.

"Hey, don' wander off on me." He yawns again. "Let's go for a walk. Gimme just a sec to grab a coat."

Footsteps pad across the room, a door opens, there's a rustle of fabric, and the man returns to his side.

"C'mon," Stark says, voice taking on that tone he can't identify. It's the same one he uses whenever he convinces Loki to talk about the… darker parts of him. He hates not being able to read people.

He follows the mortal's footsteps, and is handed his cane.

"Are you not in sleepwear?" Loki asks, confused.

"Eh, it's New York City. Nobody gives a fuck."

They step into the elevator, the only sound a slight whir as they descend from the penthouse to the ground floor. Loki takes the man's arm and falls back a half-step, letting Stark guide him to wherever it is he's planning. Outside at street-level the air is a bit warmer, and not as windy. The enduring noise of the city is louder down here, even at whatever crazy hour this is, and somewhere in the distance a siren wails. It's still significantly less crowded than in the daytime, which he's thankful for.

To be honest, he doesn't really bother trying to keep track of where they are. All he wants to do is get lost. As far away as possible.

"Wanna go be irresponsible and grab a coffee or something?"

He shrugs.

Stark leads him into building, where some overly-chipper girl greets them, and he orders them lattes. The room smells kind of nice, he guesses, as most coffee shops do. It's too warm, though, after he's grown used to the night air.

The grinder is a little loud, too; at this point he feels like everything is too much. As the steam hisses he fidgets, just wanting to leave. Another girl is apparently behind the counter as well, because the two of them are having a rather animated conversation. It's seen as bad manners to slit women's throats, here, isn't it? Damn…

At _last_ the drinks are finished and he reaches out to take his, only for Stark to catch his wrist when the arm of his jacket pulls up a little.

Shit, Rudolph, is this why you never roll your sleeves up?

He jerks away as though he's been burned, finding his coffee and turning away. "Not here," he hisses angrily.

They end up by the pond in Central Park, where the mortal finds a bench to sit on. Loki pulls his legs up to sit cross-legged, elbows resting on his legs, and takes a sip of coffee whilst resolutely ignoring the man beside him.

The silence stretches out for a few minutes before Stark decides to break it.

"Gotta admit, Loki, I'm surprised you came to me at all. Even if you're being a little, well, you know, defensive in regards to the whole thing."

"You made me swear."

"Didn't think you'd actually go through with it, though. Don't get me wrong—I'm really glad you did—just, knowing you, I thought you probably wouldn't."

He glances over toward the mortal, eyes narrowed. "I don't break oaths."

"Woah, hey, not saying you do. People tend to promise things and not mean them, though."

"Humans do."

"What, things different in Asgard?"

Loki nods. "Your kind make and break promises like they're nothing. Even if someone is to swear to something here, the chances of them actually going through with it are abysmal." A Midgardian creature calls out in the background from the zoo's direction, and he turns his head that way for a moment. "Oaths are serious in Asgard. It is a far, _far_ higher crime than killing a man. The consequence for murder is to pay weregild—call it restitution or blood money, whatever your culture refers to it as… but oathbreaking? If the other party makes public the offense, they can call for outlawry—however small the promise may have been. Even if you could survive in the wilderness alone for the rest of your life, you wouldn't be able to make it out of the central kingdom alive. The citizens decide themselves how kind the death is."

"Shit."

"Oaths are not to be made lightly. I may lie, and cheat, and manipulate, but however dire the situation I will _never_ break an oath. Weasel my way around it? Perhaps, if something incredibly serious is at stake. But if I swear something—be it to family, a friend, or an enemy—I'll never go back on my word. Thor is the same." He takes a sip of his drink. "Station matters not. Consider it to be like an unbreakable vow from Ms. Rowling's books—the punishment is the same for the lowliest slave to the Allfather himself—and oaths made on blood or over Gungnir are even more similar, in that the breaching party will die as soon as they do."

"Remind me to never, ever swear to do something with one of you guys. That is some scary shit."

He shrugs. "Not if the vow is legitimate and carried out. I've made plenty in my life. If you ever do, though, be infinitely careful with your wording, because all involved in the oath must formally agree to end it. It's easy to get in trouble if you are irresponsible."

"You're stalling, aren't you."

Dammit. He was sort of hoping the man would forget about things. Still, Loki's not ashamed of trying.

"Mhmm."

Stark's fingers wrap lightly around his wrist, and he grudgingly lets go of the cup with his left arm. Unable to keep (relative) eye-contact, he stares out into the distance and bites his lip absentmindedly, wishing that this would just end already so he can curl up somewhere and wait out the worst of things. The mortal pushes his sleeve up, further this time, and runs a thumb over the old scars running horizontally across the base of his wrist. It's a gradient upwards from there, as he's tallied the days (and they really are tallies, in careful sets of four) across his arm. He knows the number by heart, and how many times he's started over from his wrists upwards again. The scars overlap each other imperfectly, as each row is placed a little differently, and the freshest are currently about halfway up that arm.

"Wait, are those stitches?"

Loki doesn't let his expression shift from the neutral one he's been keeping ever since he entered the man's room. "It was accidental."

Stark had to discover them eventually, he supposes, and in some ways it's surprising it hasn't happened sooner. If he were to focus his energy he could heal the wounds before they scarred, but that's not the point.

"Are they for the same reasons you told me a couple nights ago?"

When he finally finds his voice, it cracks halfway through the word. "No."

Loki tries to pull his arm away, and the mortal lets him. He tugs his sleeve back down with his teeth, since his other hand is full, then turns ninety percent of his focus to the sweet smell of coffee and the crickets' chirps. He's scared of what will happen if he speaks the truth about this.

"Would you tell me?"

He shakes his head.

"Please?"

"I– I can't, Stark. I–" Loki shudders at the memory still so clear in his memory, and has to fight back the traitorous tears that threaten to well up.

An arm wraps around his shoulders comfortingly, and the contact still makes him want to flinch away at first before he can relax into it. He's not used to such things, except being grabbed in the midst of battle or some sort of threat. The mortal doesn't ask him again, apparently understanding that pushing on such a subject will not end well. And it probably wouldn't if he were to—as much as he regrets harming him a few months ago, the chances he'd lash out are incredibly high.

"Things are going to be alright. Maybe not fantastic, considering who we are, but alright. You can make it through this, and we'll figure shit out."

It's not what he needs to hear right now, because it's not true. Some things are too shattered to be mended—pieces go missing even if you try to sweep them all up. Just little ones, a tiny shard here and there as the blows come, until one day you look down and there's a gaping hole where hope once lived.

Then again, although the odds are incredibly low, someone may come and destroy everything you are in one blow, and burn the pieces while you watch them laugh.

He's too far gone to ever be alright.

"They– They're a punishment. To make sure I never forget what I have caused," he eventually manages, and immediately regrets it. The mortal is entirely too curious, and now…

"What did you cause, that you're punishing yourself for?"

Loki stands quickly, enough so that if he hadn't been drinking from it as a distraction his coffee probably would have spilled, and backs away. He can't–

He runs his free hand through his hair (although it doesn't do much, considering he's tied it up) and tries to slow his breathing. Loki won't break, not here, not now. The neutrality on his face slips for a moment, and it's long enough for the man to catch. Briefly, he debates whether he's cursed enough already, or if cursing himself for that mistake would even do anything at this point. He goes with the latter option.

"Loki?"

Try as he might, he can't keep from pacing. Standing still isn't possible at this point. Doing so would lead directly to some form of destruction, and it's hard enough to keep from wreaking havoc as it is.

May a thousand curses be on his head, and then a thousand more. On his head _alone._

"Take me back to the tower," he grits out.

Finally realizing that it's not something he should push at, Stark stands and lets him take his arm. They walk back to the tower in silence, Loki focusing his effort to not to just snap the fool's bones and leave him to bleed out on the sidewalk in the dark, like he himself had nearly done when he'd first fallen into Midgard.

–––

Loki deliberately avoids the mortal for the next three days. While he'd normally meditate at this point (or for two months drown things out in morphine, which sounds fantastic right now, damn the consequences), he's too restless now, too restless to even sleep. Everything seems to have culminated at the absolute worst time, because despite the flying and fighting easing things a little, it's not enough. Chaos gnaws at him from the inside out, determined to be released if it takes cleaving him in two; he can feel the frost creeping in, accumulating slowly, as a promise of the fear and pain to come; and adding the sudden onslaught of horrific memories threatens to destroy him entirely.

He wants to climb to the highest point of the roof and scream into the night.

So he does.

He's tried, he really has (not that anyone would ever believe that), but he just _can't take it anymore._

With his course of action coming to the first clarity he's felt in years, he goes back inside and takes the stairs down to the workshop.

*'*'*

Six days after he'd tried to talk to the god, he wakes to a call from Fury telling him he needs to come in. As in an _Avengers Assemble_ gig.

It's too early for this shit…

Tony suits up, grumbling all the way about fucking Hydra making a mess of things again, and flies out to the coordinates SHIELD sent him where the team will meet up. Well, the team minus Thor and Bruce still, which is more like four people who hate each other except for the fact that two of those four are actually pretty close buddies and also happen to be master assassins.

As for how they've managed to get anything done like this, he has no idea.

Sure enough, a few Hydra agents have gotten their hands on some scarily effective explosives, and according to what he's picked up through hacking into their comms, they're going to hold some sort of 'demonstration.' That demonstration apparently being making things go boom.

And a lot of shit is going boom.

Damage Control is going to have one hell of a job ahead of them even if the four Avengers can take Hydra's crew down, because they've already been pretty strategic about the placement of the explosives. It's localized, but that just means that the area they're destroying is all the more, well, destroyed.

They decide to go straight for the leaders, who Tony has found are carrying the transmitter for their comm system. The fight is long and arduous, with lots of bashing heads together and angry yelling, but it's not as bad as it could have been. They've fought enough of these assholes in the past that they know their weaknesses.

Not far in front of them, five loud explosions sound at a staggered rate causing two retail buildings to fall, and the destruction they cause alone is a little too well-planned to be the usual Hydra hijinx. Almost before they can react, another three on their left bring an office building down.

An off-balanced laugh comes from behind them, the sort of sound that makes your skin crawl in apprehension of the coming danger. The team turns around, weapons raised, ready to attack.

Loki stands, a blade in one hand and a pistol he must have snatched from a fallen Hydra agent in the other, with a feral grin that grows as they focus on him. God only knows where he got it, but a dark grey cloak is wrapped around his shoulders. His raven hair whips in the night wind.

"Well if it isn't the pathetic mortal team, back together again. Have you worked out your issues yet, or should I call you a therapist?"

"Stop this, Loki, stand down, and you won't get hurt," Natasha says in the terrifyingly neutral voice that screams _run for cover._

He laughs again, and this time it has a cruel bite to it. "How funny—I was about to say the same thing to you."

The god wastes no more time on speeches, apparently smarter than most of the villains they go up against (which shouldn't surprise Tony, and doesn't, but mainly because he's still processing that it's fucking _Loki_), and shoots at Steve's head. Were it not for Clint predicting the move and moving just as fast to shoot the gun off-target, the wound would have been lethal.

As it so happens, it only makes Loki that much angrier. He leaps at the archer, catching him across the jaw with the knife, and leaves a fairly deep gash.

Snapping out of his shock, Tony shoots toward the god and drags him a block away before Loki grabs onto something; the momentum ends in them rolling a dozen feet or so on the cracked asphalt. Both are up almost immediately, at each other's throats.

"Loki, what the hell _is_ this?"

"You told me not to rob banks. You never said anything about razing them to the ground."

He actually manages to hold his own in the fight—having spent so many afternoons sparring together, Tony knows a couple of the god's tricks and how to break out of a few of his favored holds—but when it comes down to it, Loki's got thousands of years experience on him. Tony's been fighting semi-seriously for, what, five? That's a pretty big skill gap.

Steve jumps in, as does Natasha, giving Clint time enough to wipe the blood away from his neck. Even together it's a difficult battle. Loki said he was holding back last time? He definitely was.

Advice spoken months ago echoes now in his mind.

_You do not want to be near me when I actually fight, believe me._

_You should run, if I ever truly let go—because Loki as you know me stops existing._

Shots ring out, and he's thankful that they're all required to wear bulletproof vests, although at close range the two shots that connect with Steve's chest still knock him back and will probably leave bruises.

Somehow the god's glasses never slip, and he assumes Loki found a way to keep them secured so that the other Avengers wouldn't realize that he's blind. If you didn't know he was going into the fight, it would be damn hard to tell, because he's learned how to track the location of enemies by sound. It's not perfect, and since he's watching for it Tony can see when he miscalculates and a blow misses. Even when he trips, though, he uses it to his advantage.

Loki isn't there, the asgardian hadn't been lying—he fights like a feral beast that's been starved for a year and a half. The damage he causes isn't a small amount by any means. Tony's the only one who hasn't gotten cut yet thanks to the suit, but his left arm didn't quite miss a clawing hand and under the crushing metal it feels like his arm might be broken. Even with the aid of the mechanics, he's worn out and gasping for breath. As for how Clint and Natasha are still fighting he has no idea. Steve looks like he's tiring, but the whole supersoldier thing has its benefits.

As for the god? He's panting, sure, but he must be running on pure adrenaline. Bruises and cuts mar his skin and the cloak is long since gone (turns out it took almost no effort to pull off, as Steve found when he tried to grab it earlier and got a fist in his face instead), hair wild and matted with blood. Whose it is, Tony's got no clue.

He raises a hand to hit the asgardian with a repulsor blast, but Loki ducks and spins to grip him from behind.

"Hello, Stark," the god purrs, pressing the manual release on his helmet and letting the metal fall to the ground with a clang. Genuine fear wells up in Tony's chest as he struggles to get away.

"Oh, come now. Do you honestly think I'd use something you know how to escape from to restrain you?" He laughs, low and animalistic.

He can't hold back a shudder, and tries to get free again.

"Now, let me think… I do seem to recall that this suit of yours requires a power source, does it not?" Fingers skim up over the chestpiece to rest on the arc reactor. More Hydra agents have appeared, this time armed with more than a single clip of bullets, and by the time the rest of the team has taken them down Loki has a knife to Tony's throat just hard enough to draw a few drops of blood. He's also found a position that neither traps him nor leaves his back exposed. The three Avengers have their weapons raised, but don't dare to take a wild shot at risk of his life (and he'd appreciate that, except he's kind of focused on other things at the moment).

"Loki, stop, this isn't y–" he manages, but the god cuts him off.

"Isn't what, isn't _me?"_ If the arc reactor had still been in his chest instead of just the suit, the way the god rips it out would have killed him almost instantly. "Oh, Stark, you poor blind fool. I almost pity you. Do you honestly think you could understand the mind of a god? No doubt Thor has filled your mind with tales of how innocent and good-hearted I am. Stories viewed through rose-colored glasses of a poor façade I created a thousand years ago. I've long since perfected it, not that he'd know. "

"Jarvis," he whispers, hoping that there might be just enough residual power…

"The truth is that I am chaos incarnate, mortal. I am fire, and ice, and rage. I am the darkness that hides in the corners of the best men's hearts. I am Loki, of the Void, and you ar–"

At the same time his gauntlet releases, Tony twists his arm and drives his blade into the god's side.


	27. Oath

Loki stumbles, and the knife he'd been holding clatters to the pavement with what feels like deafening volume. His grip on Tony loosens as the asgardian steps back, but the way his weight falls he doesn't loosen his own hold on the blade fast enough.

The god collapses, one hand clutching his side to slow the bleeding, his expression one part rage, one part pain, and two parts betrayal.

Without the arc reactor, the suit is pretty damn hard to move in, and it takes a minute to take it off manually. By the time he has, Loki has climbed back to his feet and is, from what he's learned about him, most likely trying to calculate an escape route. The Avengers take advantage of the situation and attack again.

To say the god doesn't go easy is a gross understatement. It takes Steve and a team of eight SHIELD agents that have been waiting in the wings to subdue him, and by subdue Tony means chain him up enough to drag him into a quinjet and out to a containment facility in the middle of the desert. He's anything but willing.

In stark contrast to the first time he'd shown up on Earth, when he essentially sat around in amusement and smirked at people whilst walking happily wherever they led him, this time Loki turns rabid. The entire way, he struggles violently and lashes out at any and every opportunity given. He's clever, though, even like this, and every once in a while will feign exhaustion or compliance only to strike out again a few moments later. The number of agents who'll need to spend a night or two in the med bay is scary.

Metal clinks loudly as he lunges toward of the youngest of them, making her jump back, and he uses the chance to sweep her legs out from under her and loop one of the chains around another man's throat. Steve just barely manages to free the agent before the god snaps his neck. As it stands, Loki bites down on the super-soldier's arm hard enough to draw blood, and causes Steve to pull back with a hiss of pain. The closer they get to the holding cell the harder he fights, and he manages to break a couple fingers of another agent. The cracking sound makes him grin—a terrible, animalistic thing made all the worse by the blood on his teeth.

When at last he's shoved forward roughly into the glass prison he shrieks loudly enough to hurt the ears of anyone around and spins, hand slamming down hard where a fraction of a second earlier was a gap in the door.

Realization that there's no way out slowly washes over him and he sinks to his knees, fingers leaving wet crimson streaks in their wake. The feral edge doesn't leave, but he sits for a few moments just panting, remaining alert and ready to fight again at the next mistake in SHIELD's actions. When his energy returns, he stands and prowls to the center of the cell, standing tall with a snarl on his face, every subtle shift of his body pure aggression.

The Avengers watch from another room, where the security footage is being played in real-time on the wall while SHIELD medics bandage the worst of their wounds (as though they're incapable of doing it themselves). Tony does appreciate the guy who sets and casts his arm, though, as long as he ignores the fact that it hurt like hell.

It's funny, really, how _Loki_ acted like the one who was betrayed in this whole thing. In some ways, he can hardly bring himself to look at the god, after how serious he'd been about killing him. Tony has no doubt in his mind that he would have gone through with it if need be.

Loki had warned him. Multiple times, in fact, that he was dangerous and not to be trusted. In some regards this is all probably his fault.

Especially considering what had happened a week ago.

But beyond all that is something the god had admitted, and reiterated earlier during the fight—he's chaos. Inherently. Tony has seen the struggle in his eyes on bad days, when Loki paces the room and jumps at the rustle of paper or the muted chirp of a bird that's just barely audible through the glass overlooking the city. He's seen him work himself literally to the ground, then stand and keep going, just to take the edge off. He's seen the aftereffects of something Loki's trying to hide, and hasn't been able to get Jarvis to show him. Apparently the god convinced the AI that Tony doesn't need to know.

He's not sure he agrees, but if Loki's gone to that much trouble to keep him from seeing, he isn't going to hack Jarvis to find out. Tony's concerned, but not enough to intervene and break what trust he's gained.

Not that it matters that much now, all things considered.

The mix of emotions is confusing as hell, because half of him wants to go tell the god that it'll be okay, and the other half wants to strangle him. He's still freaked out about what happened in the fight… namely the part where Loki went for the arc reactor. For a moment, instinct said it was still part of _him_ and not just his suit.

In the end he decides that he's pissed but understands how much the god's been trying to keep control, and if this gets sorted out, he can probably forgive him, if not forget.

SHIELD argues for a little while over what to do with him, but there really isn't much choice except to contact Asgard. He's their prisoner, and even though he escaped (which Fury is far from happy about), they're the ones with jurisdiction.

Tony's conflicted about what to do. With the sudden change in Loki's character he's not going to let him out—that's just asking for people to get killed—but sending him back to Asgard is a really bad idea too.

He should have thought about this more. _They_ should have thought about this more.

There's no way he's going to convince the Avengers now that Loki isn't just a psychopathic, psychotic villain, and if he tries, it could mean he won't be allowed in to see him in fear that he'll do something to break him out. SHIELD gets kind of paranoid about stuff like that, irritatingly.

Tony decides that hacking into their network is the best option at this point, because that will give him access to pretty much every part of the facility. It's not hard, considering they use Stark tech (because it's obviously the best).

What they _don't_ know is that he programs back doors into all his software and equipment. Only accessible by him or someone he programs in (Pepper and Rhodey, right now), and turns master control over to them in a convenient, phone-friendly format.

The first order of business is downloading Jarvis to all their servers, because then if something happens to his phone, he's still in command.

Has he ever mentioned how brilliant he is? Because he's pretty damn smart.

Also really anxious, because the ways he sees this playing out aren't happy ones.

There's a deafening clap and boom of thunder half a moment before lightning flashes, and everyone glances toward the window.

"Does he ever _not_ make an overly dramatic entrance?" Clint asks.

"Don't think so. Must be some rule of Asgard," Tony shrugs, trying to ignore how his stomach drops at the sound. "Rule number three, after wearing weird helmets and talking like they're Shakespearean." He leans back against the wall he's sitting by, and turns the hologram he's been fiddling with to try and distract himself until there's something more to go on, humming absentmindedly..

A little while later, after he's talked to Fury or whatever they do to say hey to gods, then trying (and failing) to have a conversation with Loki—which end with a few scary things snarled in Asgardian, an off-balanced giggle, and then total silence—Thor enters the room they've been hanging out in for the past hour or so.

"I am deeply sorry," he tells them, "for Loki's actions. We searched for him when we heard he escaped, but he has always had a talent for veiling himself from pryinging eyes. He will not do so again, the Allfather will ensure it."

Okay, yeah, Tony doesn't like the sound of that.

The thunder god starts asking them about how they've been, which, really? Apparently the Bifröst isn't totally repaired yet, so the tesseract-based whatever they've rigged to it has to recharge before it can safely transport people. He doesn't really listen, only enough to know if they start talking about something useful, and goes back to his previous activities. Natasha and Steve both go to try and talk with Loki, but the god just stands in the center of the cell and stares murderously at anyone who approaches, with the occasional crazed laugh. Natasha especially so, likely because she tricked him last time.

To be completely honest he wants to go down, but Loki terrifies him right now. He has a couple ideas if worst comes to worst, but they're kind of iffy and he doesn't want to risk lives if he doesn't have to.

Thor glances down at him at some point in the conversation and looks at him funny.

"Uh, yeah?"

He shakes his head. "Forgive me, the recent events with Loki have skewed my mind. That melody sounds like one my mother used to sing to us as children, I'd forgotten about it."

Fuck, he hadn't really been paying attention to what he was humming. "I was kind of just making stuff up, but that's cool." Note to self: don't hum songs you've only ever heard from a fugitive asgardian around other asgardians.

"Aye…" After one last curious look, he turns back to the other Avengers and resumes their conversation.

Clint grudgingly goes down to try to pry information out of the god, but the results are just a freaked-out archer when Loki only stares at him and giggles.

"Hey, Stark. He talked to you during the invasion, right?"

"Yeah, sort of. Then threw me out a window." Dammit, please don't ask…

"Well, it's your turn. Probably won't get anything out of him, but you might talk him to death. Never know."

Of course she asked. "Romanoff, how about not? Every time I see him he likes to hurt me." Tony points at the cast. "Or kill me, he's tried that both times."

"Stark is a chicken, Stark is a chicken!" Clint sings, then clucks like a hen until Tony throws a box of band-aids at him.

"Hey, you're the bird-man, not me. I'm the Iron Man. And I'm awesome."

"Just go, Stark; if we can get intel then we might have a leg up in the future."

He sighs and climbs to his feet, rolling up the holo-pad and tossing it on the table.. "Okay, okay, fine. I'm going…"

This is going to end badly, he can feel it.

When he steps into the fluorescent-lit room surrounding the fishbowl of villainy, the god cackles and turns to face him. He's still covered in blood and dirt, the same feral grin as before spread across his face, although he's shaking with what looks like exhaustion. Not that Loki will ever show it, of course, because he's way too obsessive about looking powerful around potential and known enemies.

His footsteps seem way too loud again as he walks forward and leans against one of the railings (seriously, what is it with SHIELD and their repetitive building style, this is damn close to the helicarrier and it's weird), shivering when their eyes meet—sort of, at least, and the god's wearing the sunglasses still anyway.

"Hey there, Donder. Enjoying the finer things in life, I see."

Loki's head snaps up, suddenly attentive.

Well, that's disconcerting.

"Stark," he growls.

Tony waves. "The one and only. So, the Avengers sent me down here because apparently you know cool stuff or whatever. Care to share with the class?"

*'*'*

Loki crosses his arms. "Now, why would I do that?"

The mortal jumps onto something metal and hollow. A railing? He's probably sitting on a railing if this room is at all like the one on the helicarrier. "Good thing the arc reactor isn't still life-support. Thanks for that, by the way, because those suits are just _so_ easy to build."

He wants to wince, but right now that could be a fatal mistake. "Good thing I was holding you like I was, so the knife couldn't hit anything vital when you decided to _stab_ me."

"Guess we're both just fantastically lucky, then."

The silence that falls between them may as well be tangible.

"Thor is here, isn't he." Dread sinks into his heart.

"Yep. How'd you guess?"

"You smell of Asgard," Loki replies with a shrug. No doubt Thor was overzealous and got sentimental and affectionate or some nonsense—the oaf always seems to act strangely on Midgard and do things he never would on his home realm.

"Creepy."

"Not particularly; I'm assuming he started hugging people not long before you entered. The ventilation in the cell shares the same air as that outside, so think of it as when one walks into a room with quite strong perfume. The difference is that my senses are more acute than yours, and I can pick up on subtleties."

"Still creepy, sorry." The mortal swings his legs, making the bars of what must definitely be a railing echo hollowly.

He rubs his wrist absentmindedly and looks down. "I know you have little reason to believe or care, but… I'm scared, Stark."

"No, I believe you."

He laughs, but it's not the crazed thing from before. It's just hopeless. "But you don't care."

"Never said I didn't." Nor did he say he did, but that's not the point.

He doesn't deserve it, he really doesn't and he knows that, but considering this is pretty much the end…

The Avengers no doubt believe him to have some trick, some manipulative reason for talking to the man, or that he's stalling for time while minions work elsewhere like back during the invasion. They don't know enough to see the gaping hole where magic once blossomed, or the invisible scars where it twined around his veins and his soul itself (or whatever twisted thing sits in its place, he doesn't know and doesn't care).

There's no way out, not this time. He can't escape, not on his own since he couldn't make it out without aid, and this place is no doubt away from civilization like the last base he'd visited. Even if Stark helped him, where would they run that SHIELD couldn't follow?

Crossing his arms in some vain form of comfort, he closes his eyes, trying to block everything out. Trying to forget, and just be the man he once was for a few moments. It doesn't work. Too much has changed for that.

"I don't want to die, Stark, but I'm terrified. I always knew things would end like this, but… I guess I tried to fool myself. Wouldn't be the first time."

"You don't know for sure that's what's going to happen. Pretty sure Thor's not going to be happy with that ruling."

Fighting back the urge to yell at him for speaking as such about his not-brother, he shakes his head and turns to face the man. "The Odinson held me down and sewed my lips shut," Loki says, voice breaking halfway through. "He cares not for what happens to me. His eyes that day…" He shudders, remembering the ice-cold gaze. "If he ever had hope for me, it's gone now. He'll do nothing for me."

And it's true, he doesn't doubt it. Thor is just a copy of his father now, as Loki is a copy of his.

"Do you think he's wrong?"

The laugh that escapes him is neither intentional nor entirely sane. "No. I'm a monster, and I know that. In blood and in action, it's undeniable, but even monsters still have the instinct toward survival." He sighs. "I can say nothing to prevent them from returning me to Asgard, and even were I to somehow escape, _He_ will find me. I am a damned man, Stark."

It's hard to say which would be worse—being judged by the Allfather, or caught by Him. It's not like he's given a real chance to defend himself either way, and what if they do once more what they'd already done? Or worse?

How can he ever go back, when that's to be his fate?

Then again, they may decide he's not worth the risk and just execute him outright. That would probably be the kindest option, but he knows not how likely.

"That's not the healthiest outlook on life, just saying."

Loki shrugs numbly. "It's game-over for me, Stark. No tricks, no lies; there's nothing I can do but try to come to terms with it."

The mortal doesn't speak.

He knows full well that he isn't in a position to ask for anything, but he can't help it…

"Would– Would you stay?"

After a pause, Stark replies. "Yeah."

"Thank you," he says quietly.

He sits across from the god, heart shattering at the utter hopelessness in his expression. Tony is still angry, and really wants to just yell at the asshole, but shouting abuse at someone who doesn't look like they'll fight back isn't very satisfying. Since when does Loki just back down? Unless he's plotting something, which is always possible…

"Do you have some grand master plan, here, to take SHIELD down or whatever?"

The god laughs half-heartedly. "If I did, do you honestly think I would pour my secrets out to you?"

"Hey, it was worth a try."

"I'm not, though. Planning anything, I mean."

"How do I know you're telling the truth?"

Loki pushes a lock of hair that's fallen out of his ponytail back behind his ear. "Have I ever lied to you, Stark?"

"Donder, of course you have. You're the god of lies," he reminds him with a laugh.

The god gazes at him, expression the unreadable one he seems to have down to an art. "When?"

He casts about for something, but all he can think of is when he was joking, or when he'd say he was alright and obviously not be. As far as he knows, Loki hasn't.

Well shit.

Apparently his silence is answer enough, because the god smiles sadly. "Let me prove it to you, since desperate times can lead people to do desperate things, and I have already turned my blade against you this morn." Loki pulls one of his smaller knives from his jacket, gazing toward him solemnly.

"I swear before you, Tony Stark—before those bearing witness behind the cameras, and before Yggdrasil Herself—that I have no ill intent towards you or any other, nor against any of the nine realms, and will not raise arms against you unless you explicitly and freely release me from this oath. I swear to make no attempt to circumvent, manipulate, cheat, or take advantage of these terms, until I am released either by you or death. I, Loki, theft-son of Odin and blood-son of Laufey, do vow by my lifeblood to honor this oath." After wiping the dust on his left hand onto his pants (not that it does much good, considering how dirty his clothes had gotten in the fight), he runs the new blade across his palm. Bright crimson wells up as he turns his hand toward the glass so Tony can see, expression resolute. "So mote it be."

He doesn't move for a moment, the gravity of the situation sinking in. If Loki had been telling the truth a week ago—and while he could have been lying, at that point there had been no discord between them—then he may as well have just shackled himself and given Tony a gun.

"Okay, now, see I'm thinking _that_ was the desperate shit you were talking about, not you smacking me upside the head. Overkill, much?"

"I just wish for your trust, Stark. I don't want you to fear me again."

"Yeah, not gonna lie, you've kind of freaked me out big-time today."

The god nods in agreement just as a familiar voice calls from behind him.

"Stark, can you come upstairs for a minute?"

Unsure if that's a good or bad sign, Tony gives Steve a thumbs-up. "On my way." He drums his fingers on the glass once in front of the god, and gives an apologetic smile he'll never see. "Be right back, Rudolph."

Loki makes an apathetic noise, although there might be a tinge of sorrow there if he thinks too hard about it.

He stands and turns, following the soldier.

*'*'*

SHIELD had been desperate enough to contain him that they hadn't searched him. Possibly an idiotic move on their part, as they had no idea on what he'd had on him at the time, but it means that he still has his phone. With practiced ease, he opens his texts.

_0 (770)090–0461_

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*'*'*

"You two sure seem like good friends," Natasha comments when he meets the team in one of the conference rooms. Not that it's very conference-y feeling, though, since she's got her feet up on the table, Clint's laying on top of it, and Thor is half-sitting-half-leaning on the opposite side. Their weapons are just close enough to be able to grab at a moment's notice, but not in their hands. He takes that as a vaguely good sign.

"Yeah, well, you guys missed the house party during the invasion. I made a dramatic entrance, he tried to match the awesome and failed, I offered him a drink, there were copious amounts of snark–"

"Thank god that sentence didn't end how I thought that sentence was going to end."

"Huh? How did you think–" Oh. Way to keep your minds out of the gutter, everyone. "Oh my _god,_ I'm not _that_ crazy! I'm not going to drag the psycho god into my bedroom while he's got a—okay, no matter what word I use for the scepter in this context is going to sound wrong. No, don't look at me like that, Thor, I did not even _consider_ fucking your brother until she said that."

The thunder god is giving him that look again, and it's starting to get disconcerting.

_"ANYWAY,"_ he cuts back in. "There was _snark, _not sex, we called each other names, I made a dick joke or two, and he threw me out a window. Then I smacked him in the head with my suit and flew back up to shoot him in the face. It's how all great friendships start, right?"

They look a little unimpressed, which is lame. That was probably his most badass moment that day, after all.

"Okay, a little credit please, because _I'm_ the one who said hi without superpowers, a weapon, or reinforced Hulk-resistant glass between us."

Natasha just raises an eyebrow, and Steve takes over the conversation. "Okay, so Thor's been talking to Fury and the Council–"

"Wait, those fuckheads are still around? After the nuke stunt? I vote they become our next mission because at least Hydra is openly evil. And not government." It's their fault he ended up on the other side of that portal, and he may or may not have a personal vendetta. Nobody seems to get just how much that screwed him up, and how much he wants to take them down in whatever way is convenient (and preferably painful). He's started to understand why Loki gets so mad thinking about Thor and stuff, if he was in the Void for, what, a couple years? Maybe? Like the god had said, time is relative, so there's no real way to know without some science he's _not_ doing the research for. "I fucking _hate_ them."

"Not the time, Stark. As I was saying, Thor's been talking to the Council and trying to work out something that everyone can agree on. We were going to just send them back to Asgard together, with a couple stipulations, but considering that he'll talk to you, it might be good to try and get a little more out of him. He'll have to show his cards eventually—his ego's too big to keep his plan hidden forever. If he's working with Hydra or someone else, we can prepare for them that way."

"Who do you think I am, the crazy-guy whisperer?"

Natasha laughs. "I thought that was your first language."

"Oh, shut up."

"He can't be trusted, whatever he said about not hurting people, but if you can get him to keep talking, that would really help us."

Tony glances up at Thor (he's holding onto the whole sewing-Loki's-mouth-shut thing to process later—trying to work out their relationship can wait). "Hey, buddy. What's a blood oath mean on Asgard?"

"Oaths are serious," Thor replies. "On no conditions agree to make one with him."

"What happens if you break it?"

The god looks him the eyes, suddenly grave. "You meet an excruciatingly painful death, as your blood itself rebels against you and burns you from the inside out."

Right, okay, details he didn't need to think about right now. "Then I'm pretty sure he's not going to pull a fast one on us."

Thor gives him a warily questioningly look, apparently not having been here to see that.

"Loki made a pretty airtight oath to not plot shit or hurt anyone. We've got it on tape, if you want to see."

He nods, so Tony rewinds and hits play.

_"…I swear to make no attempt to circumvent, manipulate, cheat, or take advantage of these terms, until I am released either by you or death. I, Loki, theft-son of Odin and blood-son of Laufey, do vow by my lifeblood to honor this oath."_

_The god runs the blade across his palm, letting the blood drip onto the floor with a finality that jars Tony all over again._

_"So mote it be."_

Thor shakes his head. "He deceives you, friend."

"Raikou say what now?"

"Loki is no son of Laufey, and that detail is enough to nullify the oath. You trust him too much."

"So who's his daddy, then?"

"I do not know," the god admits, with less worry than Tony was expecting, "but I can assure you it is not that wretch. Loki is no jötunn caitiff."

Wait, so he doesn't know? Tony's one hundred percent sure that Loki wasn't bluffing during their talk in the hospital, when the god confessed his secrets in the dark, and some hidden part of him convinced him to make the oath to admit when those secrets threatened to overwhelm him.

_"I'll hunt the monsters down and slay them all!"_

"Right then, Himmler, gonna go back down and chat with the goldfish."

Steve suddenly looks up. "What about Himmler?"

"Goldfish?" Natasha asks, amused.

"Shut up, both of you, and don't overanalyze the nicknames. I open my mouth and words come out. I'm gonna see what else I can get out of him, who knows. See ya!" Tony doesn't bother waiting for permission, waltzing out of the room and back downstairs.

Loki is sprawled out on the floor, focused on spinning a knife in his right hand.

"Yo, Santa's favorite reindeer, you taking a nap on me? Rude."

The god turns his head, expressionless again. "Have they reached a verdict?"

"Well, mainly they want me to keep chatting you up until you spill your secrets and tell us how you're going to blow up the base."

He looks genuinely confused. "I made an unbreakable vow; did Thor not verify that oaths are life-binding?"

"No, he's just not loving the wording."

"Why not?"

"Says you're not jötunn and so it's null and void."

The darkness in the god's laugh makes Tony shiver. "Odin was too cowardly to admit his actions… why am I not surprised?"

Slipping the knife back into his boot, Loki sits up to face him. "It matters not—after all, I am the Liesmith. Believing me is of no great necessity."

"What is?"

He shrugs, pulling his legs in to sit cross-legged on the white floor a couple inches from the glass. Dark drips and smudges of blood follow the path he'd been pacing when he'd first been (pretty literally) thrown into the cell. The wound in his side still bleeds, albeit at a far slower pace now. Asgardian healing definitely has its benefits, because while he'd been slowed, he kept fighting the whole time.

It makes sense, to an extent, if this is what Loki had predicted—of course he would go no-holds-barred when they came to find him, out of instinct alone if nothing else.

Loki's hand twitches, and he shoves it into his coat pocket with a scowl before the anger falls from his face again to leave resignation in its wake. "I just don't want to be alone. It's too empty here."

Oh, yeah. Void memories. Tony shivers at the thought, and leans sideways on the glass. "Sorry, I haven't really had a clear head the past few hours; I didn't think about that. I'll stay."

The god mirrors him, leaning on the other side so their shoulders would touch if the cell wasn't there. "It's alright, I understand. I don't hold it against you."

"Talk to me, Loki."

He leans his head against the glass. "What of?"

"Don't care. What you had for breakfast if you can't think of anything, just talk to me."

Loki sits quietly for a few minutes, thinking, and traces patterns on the floor to keep his free hand busy. "You wanted to know about the tallies."

"Only if you can talk about it."

"I don't know if I'll be able to say much, Stark, but I'll try." He runs fingers down his left arm, where Tony had seen them that night, and where they're now hidden under his sleeve. "Have you ever read the eddas?"

"Thor told us they're ninety-two percent bullshit, so no."

"We aren't allowed to read what is written of us until it has happened, even though it is mostly wrong, but I assume the story is there at least in part. I don't know if I should tell you to read it or ask you to never pick it up."

"I'll go with the latter until you're sure."

"Or killed."

"Stop it, Blitzen; you're going to be fine."

The god laughs emptily. "Optimism is one thing, but that is utter foolishness, idiot mortal."

"Yeah, well, you're an asshole."

"I try."

The words feel wrong in his mouth, because it feels like the end—some broken sentimentality. Tony's not going to let Loki get dragged off if he can help it, but he's still working out the details of his plan. They only get one shot, and he can't risk wasting it.

"One tally a day, every day. Punishment and a personal reminder of what I caused, so I never forget. The days I missed because I was physically incapable to do so I made up for twofold."

The asgardian sighs, and tilts his head up as though he's steeling himself for the story. Tony wants to know, wants to understand what's broken him so completely even after the invasion, but for the same reason he dreads it. Anything that painful to _Loki_ is not something he wants to think about.

"My youngest sons were killed as a punishment for my crimes."

…fuck. Fuck, shit, son of a cock-loving whore, that's–

His normal stream of thoughts descends into the mental equivalent of a keysmash.

It takes a minute for him to sort things out again.

"You– They– _What?"_

"Don't make me repeat it," the god says quietly, voice breaking halfway through. "I want to forget as much as I need to remember."

"Loki…"

"I was never told who sanctioned it, but neither Thor nor the Allfather spoke against the Einherjars' orders. I– I couldn't scream, Stark. I had to watch in silence, my mouth sewn shut– they were _innocent!"_

"I don't know what to say, Loki."

The god shakes his head, a stray tear leaving a streak through the dirt on his cheek. "No, you're here. Nobody has done that for me, and it's enough."

They both fall quiet, and Tony remembers why the god had asked him to stay in the first place. Without sight, and next to nothing to feel or hear, it must be a living hell for him to be trapped in there.

"Tell you what—I hate silence. Void stuff, you know." This time it's Loki that shivers when Tony speaks, and he feels bad for bringing it up, but the god had to already be thinking about it. Thus far Loki's been careful not to give the Avengers or SHIELD any confirmation that they know each other outside the battle—although they must at least have considered it by now, or think he's a really great actor—so he doesn't either. Getting him out will be easier if there's less suspicion.

Tony pulls his phone from his pocket and searches through his extensive music collection (also known as every song uploaded to the internet at any point in time, because he's Tony Stark) for something to play. "What the hell does Scandinavian fiddle sound like? I didn't even realize that _existed,"_ he says, raising an eyebrow at the screen.

"I won't ask how you stumbled across it," the god replies, pulling himself back together a little, "but it's just an iteration of what we brought your people centuries ago. It's likely evolved since last I heard it, though. Play it?"

"Sure, why the hell not." Tony taps on one of the tracks and turns the volume up a bit so that Loki can hear it through the glass (although considering his senses are like a fucking dog's, he could probably hear it anyway).

"…I'm not sure whether to call that awesome or eerie."

He barely catches it, but the god smiles. "What, the under-strings? If the tunes are not at least a tiny bit haunting, where's the fun in that? Another."

"Wow, someone's demanding. Fine…"

About thirteen seconds into the song, Loki snickers, and by thirty he's practically splitting his sides (which is unfortunate, because Tony's already helped with the right one).

"You okay over there?"

The god looks up, holding back another laugh. "Fanitullen, am I correct?"

He checks the name. "Uh, yeah, why?"

"It's mine," he says, snickering again. "I may or may not have crashed a wedding party a few centuries back."

"Story time, _now._ I so need to hear this."

"To shorten, there was a wedding, and two boys decided to duel to the death. I can't remember the reason, but it was likely silly. Meanwhile, I decided to have a little fun, because at that time Christianity had begun spreading through Scandinavia and we were being ignored." He sniggers. "A fiddler came down to the cellar to fetch wine for the winner, and found me sitting on a casket and having a bit of fun improvising that song. When we heard the losing party fall, I gave him a bit of a scare and he thought me Satan. He ran like the devil was after him, but I just got a drink. It was good wine, too."

Tony's laughing now, too, because even considering the circumstances—or maybe because of them—it's just such a Loki thing to do that it's hilarious.

"The story has been warped a little over time, but if it has been preserved as well as the tune has, then it should be fairly accurate. I'm surprised the music is so similar, but then again, those of Scandinavia have not forgotten their heritage."

"Okay, I'll admit, I like that. Nice improv, by the way."

"Of course you do; I am brilliant when it comes to mischief, and I've had a couple thousand years to learn—I had better be halfway proficient by now."

"You are such a narcissistic asshole, you know that?"

"It is a talent of mine."

The song continues to play quietly in the background, and they sit together in what could almost be considered peaceful were it not for the fact that Loki is imprisoned and scared out of his mind.

"So, the circumstances kind of sucked, but I have to say that knives aren't half bad."

"All is forgotten," he says, shaking his head. "I was just as bad as you were, and it snapped me out of it enough that I can speak reasonably. And in English, as well, for that was going to slip if the fight had lasted much longer."

"Yeah, well, I'd say no problem but it kind of was problematic."

"I see you have found a new weapon, though—I think it could be considered effective. I approve of the change, because the suit is just bulky and annoying."

"Hey! Don't bash my awesome suit!"

"Oh, my _sincerest_ apologies, of _course_ your suit is wonderful." Loki is smiling his rare, genuine smile, and it gives Tony hope again. Maybe things will be alright.

"You need anything in there?" The song in the background fades out.

The god tips his head towards him. "I want a hardingfele."

"A hardy-whatty?"

He's probably rolling his eyes under the glasses, knowing him. "Hardingfele. Hardanger fiddle. Scandinavian, eight strings, makes people think I'm the ultimate force of evil?"

"Dude. We're in the middle of nowhere. I can't just go grab you a snazzy fiddle.".

Loki pouts. "You're mean."

"That's not going to work on me, buddy. Sorry."

He laughs. "If you can convince the good Director to allow it, I do believe I could settle for a drink… or twelve."

"I kind of want to find out what sort of drunk you are, and kind of really don't."

"It just depends on the circumstances, really. I haven't had too much at any given time in a while, because as of yet I've not yet found an effective spell to reverse the symptoms of a hangover. At least, none that don't come with side effects just as bad."

Tony chuckles at the mental image of a hungover god of mischief. He's bad enough the times he's tried to wake him up, and that _definitely_ wouldn't help matters.

"Tell you what—I'll go see if anyone's got a stash of something good, and be right back. Sound like a plan?"

"Yes, of course."

He feels bad leaving him, but the god could probably use a shot or two of something good.

When he stands, the god does as well, stretching his back and arms. "Thank you, Stark. For keeping me company and everything. I didn't expect it."

"Yeah, well, what are arch enemies for, if not sharing stories like teenage girls at a slumber party?"

Laughing, the asgardian raises an eyebrow. "I do believe that was rather one-sided. Perhaps next time you'll tell me all your team's darkest secrets, like why in the _Norns_ the blonde captain wears such a bizarre costume. Was he physically forced into it without choice, or is he just insane?"

"Oh, just wait until you hear about the time Fury told me, and I quote, 'Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to exit the doughnut.'"

"I wait with bated breath for whatever ridiculousness prompted that."

"I'll tell you when I get back, it was hilarious. Gimme five." He heads toward the north wing, thinking Clint might have beer somewhere, but the god stops him a few steps before he reaches the door.

"I– I'm sorry…" he says, pulling off his sunglasses, and gazing toward him desperately. "Please, don't hate me."

He turns, confused. "Sorry for what? The fight?"

"No, Tony," the god replies sadly, shaking his head and letting his dagger fall into his hand. "I'm sorry for this."

Loki turns the blade back on himself and drives it through his heart.

* * *

_**Author's Note:**_

THERE'S MORE STORY I SWEAR  
PUT DOWN THE PITCHFORKS  
I'M TOO EVIL TO DIE YOUNG

Hardanger fiddle tunes (because they're awesome):  
youtu{{DOT}}be/Di1F8GUvEtg  
youtu{{DOT}}be/pZX0e65xMtw  
youtu{{DOT}}be/DXYs9QXVMzI?t=1m55s


	28. Peace

"_LOKI-!"_

The god's eyes widen in pain, agony written on his face that not even _his_ masks can cover, and Tony could swear for a moment his eyes flash green as he falls to his knees.

For a moment Tony can't move, frozen in place as his mind tries and fails to process what's happening.

He runs toward the cell and keys into SHIELD's system to release the lock and open the door. Sinking to his knees behind Loki, Tony wraps his arms around him as the asgardian leans back heavily against his chest.

"Dammit, Rudolph, don't do this to me," he begs quietly as tears well up, "please…"

"don't…" the god whispers, shifting one hand to rest over his. "'s alright…"

"You can't just give up!"

Loki drops his head back onto Tony's shoulder and manages a quiet sigh. "please… don' make me hate myself, l-let me go in peace…"

Tony nods, turning his left hand to twine their fingers together where they rest over his stomach, and runs his other hand through the god's hair soothingly. Trying to hold back tears isn't working very well.

"'m sorry, please don' hate me…" he begs, and coughs up blood.

"I don't. I might not agree, but I understand, and I don't hate you."

This is so surreal, most of his mind just completely blocks out the possibility of it being real. On one hand he wants to scream at the world and beg for the asgardian to hold on, but he honestly doesn't see a happy ending here. If the god wants peace, then he'll give him that much. At this point it feels like all he can do.

Slowly, pale blue starts creeping up Loki's arm and the god's breath hitches. "n-no–!" He squeezes his eyes shut, expression more pained now, like he's fighting whatever the change means. The color recedes, but only for a few moments before the god's weakening strength isn't enough to support his attempts. "no…" A tear escapes and runs down his cheek.

Tony wipes the blood from the god's mouth with his sleeve, and tries to soothe him. "It's alright… just breathe, Blitzen, stay with me."

Loki turns his head away as the blue spreads up his neck and face. His breathing has gotten a lot shallower, although whether it's from the injury or out of fear he can't tell.

"Is this because you're jötunn?" he asks quietly.

The god nods slightly. "m-monster…" For a brief moment crimson eyes meet his, and the hopelessness there shatters Tony's heart.

"No. You're _not_ a monster," he says firmly, "you understand? I don't care where you're from, or what color your skin is. You're awesome either way." Tony holds back a sob, not wanting to make the god feel any guiltier than he already does, and speaks quietly enough that the cameras won't pick it up. "Loki, you're pretty much my best friend… you're a good person, okay? _Not_ a monster, at all."

No. _That's_ the expression that destroys his heart.

With a tiny, sad smile, Loki gently squeezes his hand and closes his eyes. "'s alright, tony, i want this… 'm not scared anymore."

He looks more peaceful now—despite the pain etched on his face—than Tony's ever seen him while he's awake.

He can't hold back a sob as the god wrenches the knife from his chest with a sigh of relief.

"thank y–…"

Without the blade to slow the process, Loki sinks into unconsciousness before he can finish the sentence.

*'*'*

_Thank you, Tony,_ he wants to say. _Thank you for listening. Thank you for giving me a chance, for caring._

_Thank you for staying._

Black fades to grey before he can, though. He lets his body relax against the mortal and gives in peacefully.

*'*'*

Tony shouts abuse at the SHIELD paramedics for taking so fucking long (they'd showed up about the time Loki decided done was done and yanked the knife), because right now all he can feel is anger. At everyone, and everything, because this _wasn't supposed to happen._ He's still holding the god to his chest, clutching his hand, while they do their best work to at least delay the inevitable, and when Loki is lifted up out of his arms to be rushed to the emergency med wing he jumps to his feet and practically growls. "If he doesn't survive, neither do you. Are we clear?"

"We'll do the best we can."

"Do _better."_

The Avengers appear in the doorway looking various degrees of confused and freaked out, Fury close on their heels.

"We need to talk."

Tony looks him over quickly, trying to judge his current mind-set, and nods. "I think we do, yeah." Fury turns, and he follows him to some empty breakroom nearby.

The director turns back to him, arms crossed, and giving him the one-eyed suspicious look that would, were his emotional hard-drive not currently full, probably have made him uncomfortable.

Right now it just makes him pissed.

"I'm starting to think there's something you're not telling us," Fury says in an infuriatingly even tone.

Normally he'd flop down into a chair or something at this point with a flippant remark, but he's not letting the balance of power shift. "Now why does that sound familiar? Oh, right. Because you keep all your dirty secrets hidden until you try to nuke a fucking city."

"You know that wasn't us, Stark."

"Doesn't matter, I don't care right now. I'm going to tell you how this plays out."

"And how's that?"

He crosses his arms, meeting Fury's eyes and holding eye contact. It used to give him the creeps—not anymore. It's probably the adrenaline. "First of all, this conversation never happened. This was just a chat about what I gleaned from Loki while I acted like his buddy. Only you and I know about it."

The director raises an eyebrow. "Continue."

"Loki gets full medical attention, not whatever half-assed shit you probably give people on your most-wanted list. Better than you'd even give your top agents—I'm rich; cost doesn't matter."

"Ignoring the fact that you sound seriously compromised, why should I agree to help the same man who's tried to destroy the city twice?"

"Because," Tony says, staring him down, "if anything happens to him, I will bring your world crashing down around you."

Fury doesn't seem as shaken at that as he should be, simply replying calmly, "I think you overestimate yourself, Stark. How exactly do you think that you can take down an entire government agency? That's not the same thing as blasting your way out of a cave."

"Oh, no." He smiles. "It's much easier. Are you trying to get me to give the whole bad-guy speech and reveal all my plans?"

"Are you the bad guy?"

"Considering I'm trying to save someone's life and you're sitting here wasting time, I don't think so. Here's the deal: if Loki doesn't make it, I can make you find out just how little you're getting from taxpayers' dollars. I can wipe any and all of your domestic and offshore accounts clean of cash, I can expose all your secrets, and I can tell the world the truth about all the ways you're breaking international treaties—all with literally a single word to Jarvis.

"There's also the fact that if I want to, I can take down whatever's connected to the internet within two minutes, anything with a computer chip in seven and a half, and everything—I mean _everything in the world—_electronic in eleven.

"You shouldn't be afraid of Loki, or Hydra, or the big bad wolf, Fury—you should be afraid of _me."_

There.

That's the hint fear he wanted to see.

Tony turns to leave, then pauses. "And don't even think of trying to touch me, because Jarvis is always watching. Aren't you, buddy?"

_"Of course, Sir."_

The director glances up at the intercom system.

"Oh, yeah, forgot to tell you that I hacked your systems. _Again._ Seriously, at least make it a challenge for me next time; I'm getting bored. Anyway, Jarvis can easily fuck shit up if anything happens to me." He smiles cruelly. "And if you tell _anyone_ about this conversation, or even hint that something's wrong? The helicarrier drops out of the sky as dead weight."

Without another word, he turns on his heel and leaves.

—

The moment he turns the corner off that hall, the anger drains into determination.

To be honest, what he said was made up of ninety percent lies—the internet thing he could do, although it's impossible to do it that fast at this point because the wiring for a lot of shit is physically incapable of moving data that quickly. He can definitely fuck with their funding, but not enough to completely bring them down… Fury doesn't know that, though, and has never been able to figure out how all his stuff works, so at least for the time being it should be enough to scare him into getting the best medical care available.

He heads for the emergency care section of the base—every SHIELD facility has one in case an agent is hurt too badly to make it directly to a proper facility, and it's ten thousand times better than going to the ER in a public hospital. The doctors are specially trained, there's no overcrowding, and their equipment is top-of-the-line.

Impatiently he waits outside the door, tapping his foot, until someone comes out. "What's the scoop?"

The doctor shakes her head. "We're doing what we can, but the chances of him surviving are pretty low. Even if he does make it through surgery, there's a good chance he'll be comatose. Possibly for the rest of his life."

"He won't be, he's a fighter."

"It's not that easy, Mr. Stark. We have no idea what we're dealing with—his physiology is fundamentally different than ours, and we don't know if human blood would be compatible for a transfusion. Depending on how you define it, he's already died twice. I won't say there's no chance, but it's very, _very_ low," she warns.

"I'm ninety-seven percent sure that if you stick our blood in him, he'll end up with a pretty bad allergic reaction. I don't have enough data to say for sure, but those aren't great odds. How bad does he need it?"

"He's lost a lot of blood, and the chances are pretty low he'll make it without a donor. Even on autotransfusion he's deteriorating pretty quickly"

Tony runs a hand through his hair, trying to focus enough to think things through. "There's no way in hell we're going to be able to track down a jötunn quick enough. I've got one other option, but zero way of knowing if his body will accept it. Give me some probabilities here, doc."

"With a transfusion and a lot of luck figuring out his body as we go, maybe a six percent chance of survival."

Shit. "Without?"

"One or two."

"So it's probably better to risk it, then?"

She shakes her head. "I honestly don't know. If you decide you want to try, then we need it as soon as possible. Seconds count here."

Tony nods. "Right. I'll be back." He takes off for the break room at a sprint.

—

The other four Avengers are sitting at a folding table covered in a well-worn red tablecloth that reminds him of Thor's cape, and Fury is noticeably absent.

Speaking of the áss, though…

"Thor, buddy, need a hand real quick. You game?"

"Of course," the blonde-haired god replies, standing.

Before they can make it past the vending machines by the door, Steve calls after him. "Stark, we need to talk."

"Ah, yeah, how about _after_ I'm not covered in Loki's blood?" He attributes the fact that he's not having a panic attack right now to shock. What happened hasn't sunk in yet.

"That's exactly what we need to discuss," Natasha responds, voice serious. "Is there something you're not telling us?"

Fuck everything, he hates life. "About what? I mean, I haven't told you the specs for my suit, but there's no way in hell you're getting your claws on those."

"About Loki. You two are awfully friendly, and now you're pretty freaked out over his death. We need to know if you've been compromised."

The anger is back, and it lights a fire in his chest. "Compromised? You're worried about _me_ being _compromised?_ Fine, here's the rundown: Loki likes me because I don't take his shit, and I act like I care. That's why it was so easy for me to get him to talk, because I'd already figured that out during the invasion. As for why I'm freaking out, was nobody watching the feed, or does just nobody care about the fact that a guy committed suicide?"

Screw the fact that they've been living together for months, even if some Hydra agent had done it he would have cared. Especially if they were as scared as the god was.

"You guys? You're soldiers, warriors, assassins—you chose this shit. Me? I'm just some guy who crawled out of a cave with a magnet in my chest and suddenly got dragged into a war. So sorry that I can't just sit back and watch people die without feeling anything, but I think it's kind of funny how the guy in the metal suit is the only person here who _isn't_ a robot."

"Stark," Clint tries to cut in, "he isn't even huma–"

"Neither is Thor, does that change shit to you? Look, Loki's an asshole, but he fucking _bled out in my arms._ I can't handle that, okay? Loki's a _person,_ you know, not just a fucking 'he'. Let's go, Thor." He's dragging the god by his cape out the door before any of them can get their jaws off the floor. Seriously, the fucking bastards have had it coming ever since Steve called Phil a soldier, and they shouldn't be so surprised that he blew up at them.

Not stopping to chat, he interrogates Thor on the way to the med wing.

"Okay, seriously, did you really not know that Loki is Laufey's kid?"

"I was never told of such a thing, no."

Wow. Awesome Parenting 101. "I'm guessing you were watching the tape, though?"

"Aye."

It's all he can do to not just punch the áss in the face. Or stab him. Stabbing sounds fun.

Holy shit, he's starting to sound like Loki. Although if this is what dealing with Thor was like for him, he can see why the trickster acts the way he does.

"Whatever happened to the whole 'He's my brother no matter what and i'll never stop loving him' gig? Where the hell were you when he was dying?"

The áss shuts his eyes with a sigh. "I didn't know what to do. Every time I think that maybe I've finally found him, I lose him all over again. I was frozen in place."

Oh. Okay, that's not what he was expecting. Thor's generally not the sort of guy who's too scared to jump into the fray. And maybe he really _is_ broken up about what happened, even if he's not showing it much.

"Important question time: now that you know Loki's jötunn, do you still consider him your brother?"

"Always," the god replies without hesitation.

"What would you do if I told you that he was still alive?"

His head snaps up from where he'd been staring ahead at the ground. "What?"

"It's bad, Thor, and probability says he probably won't make it. They've got him in surgery right now, but he knew what he was doing. He had damn good aim—that's where you come in."

"Anything I can do to aid in his survival, I will."

"How would you feel about him actually becoming your blood brother?"

The thunder god looks confused. "By what means?"

"He's lost way too much blood, and needs a transfusion. Trouble is, human blood isn't compatible as far as we know, and I don't think they have great cell signal on Jötunheim. We have no idea if yours would work, but it's our best shot if you're willing to donate a bit."

"I know little of your medical practices," Thor admits, "but if there's a chance it would save him then I'm more than willing."

"This is one of those times when the 'thank god' expression becomes literal."

The expression he still can't figure out returns—it's not curious, exactly, or searching, but it always makes him feel like the god knows more than he lets on.

After a few minutes, his suspicions are confirmed.

"You were lying to the Avengers."

"What?"

"About not seeing him between the chitauri invasion and today."

Dammit, he was kind of hoping Thor wouldn't catch on, at least for a little while longer until he'd figured shit out.

"I've suspected it for a couple of your months now. I wasn't sure at first, but now I have little doubt that you know each other better than our friends think."

"Okay, first off, _your_ friends. I don't think I've become quite that buddy-buddy with you guys yet, considering that so far this is the first conversation I've had with one of you that hasn't ended with me wanting to break something. What tipped you off?"

"At first it was your mannerisms—I believe you may have picked up a few of his. Your speech, too, although less so."

He raises an eyebrow. "You're a lot more perceptive than Blitzen makes you out to be. Or would you be Blitzen, since there's the whole lightning connotation? Whatever, beside the point. Sorry. Do continue."

The god laughs quietly. "See? Your phrases match his."

"That's a little freaky." He waves. "Hey, Doc, found our donor. You set up?"

She's changed into scrubs (dark red ones, which actually look kind of cool, for scrubs anyway), and judging from the mask he's guessing she just came from surgery. "Yeah, come on in."

The woman leads them into a room that is weirdly not cave-like for SHIELD, with cool grey walls and darker tile. There are a couple comfy-looking chairs around a coffee table, and she tells them to have a seat.

"Wait, is this a break room too?"

She nods, and he proceeds to complain about how for people saving the world, the team get treated like summer-camp kids. Throw 'em some glittery construction paper and safety scissors, and they've got the whole package.

Thor seems both confused and intrigued by the whole thing, laughing when she asks if he has any problem with needles, and not even remotely squeamish with the whole thing. The doctor tells Tony that she'll be back in ten minutes, unless something happens, and to keep an eye on Thor just in case. Having started the process and not able to rush through it, they go back to their previous conversation.

"Did he teach you to fight?"

Tony scowls. "More like threw me around the room and kicked me while I was down. The number of times he's choked me unconscious can't be good for my health."

"He's always believed in learning by experience."

"I've gotten that. Still got bruises from last time."

The god looks at him searchingly. "So when you were humming earlier…"

"Yeah, I heard it from him. Wasn't paying as much attention as I should have been, considering you were in the room."

—

He's not handling this fantastically, and he knows it, but the uncertainty and inability to do anything is driving him up the wall. Well, not literally, because he's sitting on the cold white tile in the cold white hallway thinking that he's going to go insane from lack of visual stimulation. Working on company projects doesn't help, and personal ones are impossible because he's so distracted, so he's essentially stuck here twiddling his thumbs until something happens. Please dear god let it be good news.

"Hey," a voice says gently from his left.

Looking up he finds Steve, back in normal-people clothes and for once not looking at him like he's a waste of perfectly good air. "Hey," he replies dully.

It's finally starting to sink in, what happened down in the cell, and he just feels numb.

Maybe if he had thought faster, put more work into things and not sat around on his ass like SHIELD would never find out; Loki wouldn't be half running on machines right now. They could have gotten out okay.

Steve sits down beside him, crosslegged, and looks toward where the floor meets the wall opposite them. "I'm sorry, for how we reacted earlier. It was uncalled for."

He nods.

"How are you holding up?"

"I–… Every time I look down, all I can see is his blood on my hands. Literally. I can't bring myself to wash it off, though." Tony stares at them where they rest on his lap. "I should have seen it. Thinking back, he kept showing signs that he was going to do it, kept talking like it was the end. Not in a going-back-to-Asgard sense. Like he was going to die on Earth. I should have stopped him."

"I keep forgetting that you weren't trained like we were," he admits. "That you haven't spent your life doing this."

"Yeah." It takes him a while find any other words, because everything is just blank. "…what if I'd just paid a little more attention, just thought a little faster? What if I could have talked him down?'

"Don't think about the what-if's, Stark. What's done is done. All that does is make you feel worse."

"Mhmm…"

He tries not to, he really does, but all he can do is keep running through scenarios in his head and finding dozens that probably could have worked if only he hadn't been such an idiot. The silence is awful, but at least the captain seems to realize that talking won't help much right now. Admittedly, it's kind of nice to have the support, even if it's Steve and they're just sitting here—is that how Loki felt when they'd sit together after something had happened? He hopes it was at least this comforting, if not more so.

If this had been someone else in surgery, one of the Avengers or even one of his friends, Loki would know what to do. He always seemed to just _know._ Like the night he'd woken him up from the nightmare, and let him know that _finally_ he wasn't alone in dealing with that. He hates that the god's been through that trauma too, but at least together they have someone who can actually understand how scarred they are.

There are a couple stray drops of the stupid white paint on the stupid white linoleum from whenever the walls had been touched up, so he picks at them and flicks the chips across to the other side of the hall.

—

What feels like years later, one of the double doors swings out and the doctor who's been talking with them returns. He climbs to his feet, desperate to know but also scared out of his mind that it's all over.

"So?" he asks, although it's mostly a demand.

"I have good news and bad news."

Shit. That's always bad. "Talk."

"Well, the good news is that the blood was at least semi-compatible. His body didn't handle it like a human's would, but it's seemed to take. Miraculously, it seemed to be enough to get him through surgery, but he's still in critical condition. He definitely needs to stay on life-support, although we don't have anything to compare his vitals to and have no idea what his baselines are. It's a wonder he's even made it this far—most people couldn't have survived that. He managed to get the perfect angle in one go to do the most damage, although thankfully since he went between his ribs the knife couldn't twist much without significant force."

Tony is well aware that it wasn't luck on the god's part—he has enough experience and strength to know where to make an efficient kill.

Dreading the next question, he has to force it out. "…and the bad news?"

She wastes no time sugar-coating, which Tony is thankful for, because someone might have gotten strangled otherwise.

"He stopped breathing, twice, and the amount of damage he did is severe. It's just a waiting game to see if we've been able to stabilize enough. You have to understand that while we've done the best we can, the likelihood of him waking up is almost nonexistent. You may wish to say your goodbyes, because he might not make it through the night."

It's hard to say which is worse—holding the god while he was dying, and doing everything he could to keep him alive afterwards, or knowing that he's just barely holding on and there's nothing he can do.

"Can I see him?"

A nod. "Be careful of the equipment, but you may go in."

—

Whatever he'd been steeling himself for, it wasn't this. To be honest, he'd been praying to whoever was listening that he'd go in and see if he could make the god smile again. Or at least talk to him.

A heart-rate monitor beeps consistently, too loud for the small room, and the ventilation unit hums in his peripheral as it feeds oxygen to aid the god's breathing through a cannula. Blankets are pulled halfway up his stomach, not high enough to hide how his chest is swathed in bandages over both the initial wound and the incisions from god only knows what surgery they'd done. He doesn't want to think too hard about that right now.

Two IV bags hang from a pole on the far side of the bed, the lines leading down to hypodermics taped to his forearm where the god's knife once resided, and the sheer number of wires and devices in the corner, even though they're not all being used, freaks him out majorly.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

He should have seen the signs.

He should have stopped him.

Loki's chest rises and falls shallowly, and his eyes are closed. Not that it doesn't make sense, but he wants to talk to him, to try to figure out what to do.

The god's skin never returned to its normal tone, staying jötunn blue and marked with raised, sweeping lines. Somehow the form still fits him, and Tony has a hard time understanding why the difference makes him a monster. The Nazi comparison is really the only thing that helps at all, but it's still fucked up. Either way, Loki is beautiful and he refuses to consider him less a god because of his heritage.

This is all so fucked-up.

Half of him refuses to believe it's real.

Being exceptionally careful not to knock anything, Tony lowers one of the rails and sits beside him on the bed, just watching him and trying to make sense of things.

"I'm so sorry, Loki…" He reaches up to brush a few stray hairs away from the god's face. Tony doesn't know when that motion became so natural to him, but it has, and he just needs some sort of familiarity right now. Pepper is across the country at a meeting in California, Happy with her, and Rhodey is in DC working on government shit. Bruce is somewhere in the middle-east last he heard, although he's been keeping quiet and out of the way, so tracking him down would take time… the only other friend he has is living on borrowed time, comatose, beside him.

Supervillains he can do—beating people up is easy.

This is just terrifying.

"I don't know if you can hear me, Donder, but if you are… please." His voice breaks as he speaks quietly to Loki. "Please don't give up, okay? I need someone to do science with, I need someone who can tear me down and show me my place when I start going overboard, and I need my friend back, dammit! So don't you dare give up on me, because I swear to god I'll drag you back from the dead just so I can kill you myself."

—

He sits with the god until he can't hold his eyes open, then pulls a chair over and sits like Loki did when it was Tony in the hospital, laying his head on the mattress.

Sleeping only works for a half hour or so before he wakes out of nightmares, and for the first time since the god had fallen unconscious in his arms, he breaks down into not-so-manly tears.


	29. Consultant

The nurses kick him out around six thirty in the morning. Tony hadn't realized it had been so long, and isn't happy with the prospect, but he hasn't had more than a couple snacks around lunchtime from the old vending machine which only accepts exact change, but won't take dollar bills or quarters anymore (that had ended in quite an adventure as he scrounged for dimes and nickels) and skipped dinner altogether, so he takes a shower and goes to find whatever passes for food in this hellhole.

He ends up in the cafeteria, hair still wet from the shower and not entirely awake, with a tray of what's apparently breakfast but he doesn't trust to actually be edible. Knowing SHIELD, it's probably full of some experimental drug that's ninety percent likely to give him an extra arm or something.

Oh well. If he eats something, it's less likely that anyone will come bother him. Then again, people who are totally comfortable ignoring a god who made a fucking terrifyingly effective attempt at suicide probably won't care that much if he skips a few meals. After a couple stomach-turning bites he gets up and goes to find something useful to do.

When he says useful, that ends up being sitting on the floor again feeling completely useless. He hates being out of control.

Finally the doctor he keeps running into lets him in (apparently her name is Morgan or Martha or something), and he curls up in the chair again with his tablet, wishing he could do more than get in the way.

Really, it's not so much that he needs to be in here twenty-four-seven because he can't bear to be away or some overdramatic shit, he's just terrified that Loki's going to get worse and he won't be able to do anything if he's across the base.

Is it healthy to blame himself so much for all of this? No, probably not at all, and he knows that, but it doesn't stop him from doing it anyway. He feels responsible for what happened, because he was the only one who could have seen it coming. He was such a total idiot…

But Loki had made it through the night, right? At least that's something, even if the entire thing is a train wreck of epic proportions. He rests his head on his good arm and takes a breath.

Fuck, he's not handling this well…

He wants to call Pepper, or— Well, she's really the only one, isn't she? Happy knows he's been living with the god, but as well-meaning as he may be, he's not the sort of guy who'd be exceptionally helpful right now. And at the same time, what would he say? 'Hi, Pepper, I fucked up and now Loki's comatose in a SHIELD facility, how are you?' Thor's been in a weird mood, which he kind of gets but doesn't really, and just…

The god had been on Earth for, what, six-ish months before they'd first run into each other? If he'd made any friends, though, he hasn't really mentioned them. He saw the two kids at the park that one day, but that's really it.

"Dammit, Loki, you just _had_ to be like me, didn't you?" He sighs, tracing one of the markings that runs down onto the god's hand. "Then again, I guess that's why we get along."

Still feeling like shit about everything, he rests his head on his arm again and just tries to stop thinking so much.

Melissa comes back in with a nurse a little later to change the bandages and check up on the god, but as much as Tony's never been squeamish about that sort of stuff, he doesn't want to see how bad things are. He turns away until they're done. When Megan is leaving, he thinks of something.

"Hey, Miranda?"

"Michaela," she corrects, but looks significantly less offended than the girls he used to pick up a few years ago.

"Yeah, sorry. Never been good with names. Anyway, what meds have you got him on, like, which painkillers?"

"Methadone for now—we'll see what happens and if we need to change it down the road. Why?"

He runs a hand through his hair, remembering Christmas. "He had a bit of a morphine problem end of last year. He's pretty sure it was just a dependency, and that's probably most likely, but…"

"I'll take it into consideration."

"Thanks. I had to pull him off cold-turkey after he OD'd on that and sleeping pills, and it wasn't pretty."

"So this isn't his first attempt, then?"

"The third that I know of. The first time screwed him over pretty damn badly, but that's beside the point. Essentially, give him enough of an emotional overload and he'll go for it. Effectively."

She nods. "Does he have anyone else around? I know his brother is here, but he hasn't come to see him."

"Yeah, I have no idea what Thor's up to with that whole deal. The blood was a no-brainer for him, but apparently actually being in the same room freaks him out. I have a theory on that, but I don't want to think about it. Other than him and me? Not that I know of. At least, not on Earth, or that I've heard of anywhere else. One of my friends, maybe, but that's really it."

"I'm sorry."

"It's the asshole's own fault."

"Still," she says, "he's lucky to have you. I've seen plenty of people who don't have _anyone,_ or maybe a couple people who show up every once in a blue moon. Now, I'm not saying you should be in here all the time, because it's not good for either of you, but he's lucky to have someone."

"I'm just worried it won't be enough," he admits, watching the god.

"I'm not going to give you the usual hospital bullshit, because half the time it just makes things worse, so I'll skip straight to the point—it probably won't be. Try not to get your hopes up, because I've seen people, when someone they cared about who was ninety-nine percent likely to not make it, put so much faith in that one percent and think that because it's _their_ friend, or _their_ family member they'll survive, end up crashing and burning when they die after all. Death doesn't play favorites. Not to say that he definitely won't survive, but realize that it's just a waiting game now."

"Yeah, I got it. Thanks."

She goes, leaving him a chart on the counter that he doesn't want to read. It's the whole ignorance-is-bliss thing, he guesses, but he knows he'll have to sooner or later.

A few minutes of thought and a glance over to the cabinet across the room remind him that, oh, they would have kept Loki's things. Probably in here, actually, in said cabinet because despite how paranoid SHIELD can get, they're also huge idiots.

Sure enough, folded nice and neatly (which is hilarious considering how dirty and torn they are), his clothes sit on the eye-level shelf inside. To the left is the–… well, the knife. Not thinking about it, la-la-la-la-la… Yeah, okay, that doesn't work. There's also a nice pile of pretty much _every knife Loki has ever owned on Earth,_ which is even more than he'd realized, although taking into consideration the fact that the god had actively been looking for a fight it makes more sense. His boots are scuffed, which he feels like Loki probably won't be happy about, considering how obsessively careful he is about keeping them in good condition. Not that he wouldn't go stomping around in the mud if he wanted to, but he'd definitely make sure they were clean afterwards for reasons Tony can only guess at. Other than that is a small, worn scroll of parchment that looks like it's been unrolled one time too many, a glass vial of god knows what, and what he was looking for: his phone. Bingo.

He's curious about the scroll, but opening it feels like a violation of the god's privacy. The deep red ribbon keeping it rolled stays in place, and Tony closes the cabinet to inspect his prize.

Not that this doesn't edge into privacy-breaching territory, but it feels less personal than the scroll.

The screen lights up with a Stark Industries logo when he flips it so sighted mode, then switches to a slightly modified version of the OS he uses on his own phone. His finger hovers over the contacts button, but he can't bring himself to do it. If Loki wakes up—no, _when_ Loki wakes up—he'll have enough things to be mad about. Maybe later on, if the god doesn't come back right away, but not now.

Life _sucks._

Why the hell is he even so worried, anyway? He wouldn't freak out this much over Happy, or Bruce, or even Rhodey. Maybe Pepper… Stupid gods being stupid. He still can't figure out what the hell Pepper's been going on about, because he honestly doesn't know what he is to Loki or what Loki is to him.

He's just… Loki.

The god defies all logic and reason, on the complete opposite end of the spectrum from what he saw in the abyss. He's an entirely different sort of incomprehensible.

He sinks into the grey chair by the bed, after turning it to face toward the headboard so he can kick his feet up on the nightstand thingy. No idea what they call it here, but it seems like the place people would put cards or flowers or whatever if they brought them. Granted, Loki probably wouldn't take kindly to either, and it's quite likely he'd just set them on fire for the fun of it.

With a tired sigh, he pulls up the drawings for the current arc reactor on his tablet, since he's been trying to improve its efficiency and reduce the depth. Seriously, the damn thing took up a ridiculous amount of space—the reconstructive surgery he'd had to get it out took forever and a half, and he's toast if Magneto ever comes around.

"You know, it's really disconcerting for you to be both quiet and not glaring at me like you've got Superman laser eyes or whatever," he comments, having to do a little weird maneuvering to do things one-handed. Apparently the cast is going to be hanging around another week or so… or more. It's dumb.

The silence is deafening.

—

A week goes by with no real change—there are a couple scares with Loki, but that's it. Waiting is driving Tony insane.

Loki had sat at his bedside (or beside him in the bed) every night for a week or so while he'd healed a couple scrapes and bruises, and damn it all to hell if he won't do the same. He's not sure if he would have stayed sane, otherwise, because there was _nothing_ to do.

The mattress has become his pillow, he grabbed a couple blankets from one of the bunks (the one the Avengers keep trying to get him to sleep in), and now he sleeps in the god's room.

He keeps having nightmares that one of the machines will fail, or they just won't be enough to keep Loki alive.

—

On the twenty-third of May—two and a half weeks since the god tried to take his life—those nightmares start coming true.

The life-support does its job, and everything is functioning, but Loki really did a number on himself. He wanted to die, and he made sure he would.

—

The god's condition starts deteriorating quickly, and the doctor (who he's just started calling M, much to her amusement, since he can never get her name right) says he has maybe a week left if they keep him on full life-support. She's the only one of them who doesn't beat around the bush, and he likes her for it. Might have to buy her a sports car or something when this is all over and Loki's back on his feet.

Tony's gone past numb and circled back around to snapping at any and everyone. There's no way the team doesn't _strongly_ suspect that there's more to it than his poor civilian conscience, but honestly he's beyond caring. He just wants this to all be over—and not in the death way.

When he finally gets the guts to call Pepper, she flies out (SHIELD really seems to like her, because she barely even got screened) to spend a couple days. He doesn't talk much, but he doesn't need to—she gets it, and is happy to help when she can.

She keeps giving him meaningful looks, but that's the last thing he wants to focus on. He's desperate, and he's not thinking far past there.

Tony's getting more and more worried that there's nothing he can do. When he finally has an idea, he doesn't like it, because the god could go at any time and he'll have to leave to find out if it'll work.

M promises to stay with him as much as possible, and make sure there's always someone watching in case something happens.

It only helps ease the worry a little, but he flies toward New York nonetheless.

—

He raps three times on the huge wooden doors, stained dark—and actually a little menacing, knowing about the guy who lives here. When it swings open, he raises an eyebrow. Somebody seems to have finally gotten it through their thick skull that huge capes are more pretentious than impressive, opting instead for a slightly less ridiculous coat. Still red, though.

"Tony Stark, to what do I owe the pleasure?" he greets. "I'll admit that I didn't expect to see you. Do come in." The man steps aside to allow him entrance.

It's kind of a freaky place. Like, a TARDIS if you took out the science and threw in a bunch of candles and incense and shit. Not really his cup of coffee, but whatever. To each their own crazy house of weirdness.

"I assume you are not here for tea?"

"Not unless that tea's pretty damn magical. I came to ask for a favor, actually."

The man looks intrigued. "And what does a man like you seek out knowledge of the occult for?"

"Well, less knowledge," he replies, poking at books and stuff on the shelves, "more rhymey finger wiggling stuff."

"I must admit, that's not a description of sorcery I have not heard used before."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Like I said, a favor would be awesome."

"I wouldn't touch that if I were–" the robed man tries to warn a little too late. Tony gets a faceful of smoke and tries to wave it away. "–you."

"Shut up."

"What would this favor entail?"

Tony sighs, not liking having to ask shit like this. He's more the do-it-yourself sort of guy. "I've got a buddy who's a mage, and not at peak health."

"A mage? Who?"

"You know—ridiculously long black hair, 6'4"… Enjoys awful Icelandic comedies, Paganini, and long walks on the beach?"

"I can't say I do, no. Mages are tricky for me to work with because of the way their powers are intertwined with their bodies."

"What about a depowered one?"

"Their powers are bound?"

"No, powers gone completely. Ex-mage."

He looks confused and intrigued, cocking his head slightly. "I was not aware such a thing was possible."

"He wasn't either, and he's not happy about it. Long, not-so-happy story, and he doesn't like to talk about it. So will you help me or not? Time's kind'a of the essence on this one."

After a moment's consideration, the sorcerer nods. "Would you prefer to fly, or teleport?"

"Uggh, I hate magic… teleport, but _only_ this once. SHIELD facility's out in western Nebraska, think you can swing it?"

"Of course."

—

Teleportation is _not_ something Tony enjoys, at all. He feels like he's been run through a blender. Twice.

"This way," he points, finding his way back to the right entrance. The guards look skeptical.

"Buddy of mine, guys. Orders from the Director, if you want to call it in, but he's kind of pissed right now because of exactly what we need this guy for. Besides, I'm Iron Man. It's not like I'm sneaking villains in." Just watching their near-lifeless bodies in hospital beds.

They must be new recruits, because they nod instead of asking Fury. Works for him. He leads the man into the base, only stopping briefly to step out of the suit, then into the ICU. Surprisingly, there's a blonde-haired super-soldier sitting in the chair beside the bed, sketching on the back of scrap paper with a cheap ballpoint pen he must have found in one of the drawers. He glances up when they enter.

"Stark," he greets. "We were wondering where you'd flown off to. Who's your friend?"

"Steve, meet Stephen. Stephen, Steve," he introduces them briefly. "How's he doing?"

"Had a bit of a scare with blood loss earlier—Thor's is working to an extent, but not long-term. Michaela thinks his body is able to use it to an extent for a little while, but essentially once it's in his system for a time it becomes inert and is being metabolized since it's useless. He's on another transfusion, and it's helping a bit."

"Gotcha. Thanks for keeping an eye on him."

Steve nods and stands up. "Of course. Need me for anything else?"

"Nah, not right now. I'll probably end up in the cafeteria trying to find something edible later, if this goes well."

"Alright, see you then." He waves and leaves.

The sorcerer walks to the bed, surveying the wounded god's body. "You didn't tell me it was Loki you spoke of."

"Couldn't risk the chances of you not coming, Doc. Would you have teleported us over right away if I had?"

"I suppose you have a fair point. However, nor did you say he was comatose."

"Yeah, well, I'm short on time, like I said. Assumed you were smart enough to figure that one out on your own—after all, weren't you a surgeon?"

"Neurosurgeon, yes. He is not in good condition."

_"Really?_ he says with more sarcasm than is probably necessary, "I never would have guessed!"

The man just shoots him an unimpressed look. "Can you tell me what happened? It will make things easier if I know the circumstances and injuries."

Tony sighs, sick of having to tell people and making this any worse on Loki when he wakes. Strange has a point, though (and schmancy voodoo powers), so he doesn't have much choice if he wants to give the god a chance.

"Okay, look. To keep it short—and it'd be great if you don't talk about it with anyone, because I kind of want to keep it on the downlow until he can make the choice himself as to who he wants to tell—he's suicidal. Has been for at least a few years, and when he goes for it, he doesn't take any chances of survival. SHIELD caught him a little while ago and he was going to be taken back to Asgard, where he'd be either tortured, executed, or both, and he was scared enough to run a knife through his chest. We've barely managed to keep him alive, and I think it's pretty obvious from all the machinery and tubes and shit that he's not doing well. We've got to get his heart back in working condition and his mind back up and running. Was kind of hoping you could help with that part, since you've done Jedi mind tricks before and everything."

The sorcerer thinks it over for a minute, then nods. "I'll see what I can do, but I can make no promises. He'll have to want to come back, at least to some extent—I can't force that."

"Trust me, some part of him wants to live. He came to me for help a week before all this happened because he had promised to, even though it made him uncomfortable. There's at least a spark in there."

"I'll need you to leave while I work. This takes a great amount of concentration, and if something backfires you could get hurt."

"Wait, this shit can backfire?"

"All magic can; it is a risk we take. Such things are unlikely, though. Go eat, if you need to, because this will take time."

He doesn't know Doctor Strange well, and it makes him a bit uncomfortable to leave right now, but a lot of his superhero acquaintances would vouch for the guy. It's not like there's much of a choice. If they were going on borrowed time before, they're begging and purse-snatching for it now.

Tony takes Loki's hand, tracing the markings with his thumb, and speaks quietly. "Hold on, Rudolph. You're strong enough, so don't you dare give up on me, you hear? You'll wake up if I have to drag you back kicking and screaming." He squeezes his hand gently and smiles sadly down at him. "Just hold on, okay? I'll be back when I can."

Without a word to the sorcerer (or making eye-contact for that matter), he heads back down the overly-clean hall to his bunk. Exhausted, he falls asleep within minutes.

—

Tony wakes to a hand on his back, which for half a second he thinks is Loki's before the memories come flooding back. Memories of false laughter, the flash of metal, and crimson streaks of blood.

Instead, he finds Steve with a tray of food.

"You were mysteriously missing from the past two meals, I figured you could use something to eat."

He rubs his face, trying to wake up, and shakes his head. "Has it been that long? I'm not hungry. Thanks, though."

Steve pulls a folding chair out from against the wall and sits backwards facing him, arms resting on the back of it. "This isn't the first time you've seen him since the battle, is it?"

With a sigh, Tony decides it doesn't really matter anymore—he just wants the asshole to live. "No, it's not," he admits.

"How long has it been?"

"Don't know, exactly. Ran into him last fall, so…" he does the math, "seven or eight months?"

"Why didn't you tell anyone?"

Steve seems to be taking this remarkably well, sounding like he's not just outright accusing him, which is unexpected. Could be a trick, but like he said—he's pretty much done with caring. "I was going to, but he didn't seem like a threat. He was living his life, I was living mine, and every once in a while we'd run into each other at the coffee shop or in Central Park. I figured I'd try and see if he was up to something and then call SHIELD, but it kind of became normal and I decided not to. Dunno."

Tony spins the god's phone in his hand absentmindedly. It's not like the guy'll make the connection, since it just looks like another phone. Even if he turns it on, nobody seems to have realized Loki's blind yet.

"He trusts you, though."

"Not a hundred percent on that one—he's not the sort of guy to consistently do _anything."_ After a moment of thought, he adds, _"I_ trust _him,_ though. Have ever since around New Year's."

"Why? What happened on New Year's?"

He shrugs. "Long story, starting one day when we ran into each other at the coffee shop, and ending around the time he stopped sleeping on the couch and figured out that beds are way comfier."

Now Steve just seems confused, and were it not for his generally shitty mood he might have laughed. "Oh, didn't I mention? He's been living in the tower with me for, like, five months now. His room's right down the hall from mine. You would not _believe_ how picky he is about food, although he seems to be slowly acclimatizing, because I can now buy normal bread and cereal without him complaining. Well, complaining too much, he's still a total asshole."

Thankfully, the questions don't get very invasive, and he's guessing the super-soldier gets that he's not going to get too in-depth right now. He does, however, ask the same question _everyone_ else keeps asking.

"You really care about him, don't you?"

Saved by a fantastic interruption when a red-clad sorcerer opens the door, he jumps at the opportunities to both avoid the question, and to hear the news.

"So… is he awake?"

The man looks down, and his stomach drops.

"Please say he's awake."

"He's not, I'm sorry—I might be able to lead him back, but not until his body is healthy enough to support him. Were he to awaken now, he would panic and the stress could kill him."

"So tell me what to do; don't just stand around being useless," Tony demands with a scowl, now pissed about the hopelessness of this whole thing.

Strange sighs, fixing how his belt lies. "His heart is barely able to function even with the machinery supporting it—he simply doesn't have the energy in the right points of his body. He'd need another surgery at the very least, and it would be incredibly dangerous."

He swears colorfully, a few of Loki's curses slipping in by mistake, just making him feel worse.

"Talk to me, Doc. I want as much info as you've got."

—

_"Hello?"_

"Hey, Pep, it's me." He know he sounds tired, but hopefully she'll ignore it. He's heading back towards numb again.

_"How're you holding up? Everything alright?"_

Tony sighs. "He's getting worse. If we don't do something in the next few days…"

_"I'm so sorry, Tony."_ And she really does sound it.

He didn't call just to chat, though.

"Pep, if you had a way that might save his life, but that he'd probably hate you for—and I mean really, irrevocably hate—do you think it would be worth it? To put him through that, only to probably have him want to die again?"

_"I don't know. I'd need more details, and even then I can't say for sure. I don't know him as well as you do."_

"Well, here's what I have in mind—…"

He explains his thoughts, all the different ways things could play out, and waits for a while before she answers.

_"We're different people, obviously, but if you think you can help him get back on his feet afterwards, then I think it might work. It will definitely be hard on both of you, but it might keep him alive if you're both incredibly lucky."_

"Thanks, seriously. Don't know what I'd do without you."

_"Probably end up scrounging for pennies on street corners."_

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."


	30. Rhythm

"I can't do it, Pepper."

"Stop being such a wuss and get it over with. You're not doing anyone any favors by putting it off, and you and I both know that his chances are just going to get worse the longer you do."

"But–"

"Tony." She gives him the scary death-glare of doom, and he really can't argue with that.

With a nod, he squeezes the god's hand. "Sorry in advance, Loki, because you're going to hate me for this. I mean, you're going to hate me anyway, but a lot more now…"

Tony stands and goes to talk with M-what's-her-face and the other surgeons.

—

"How you holding up, Goldilocks?"

Loki's been in surgery for what feels like forever, and he knows how slim the chances are. Like, less than one percent, if they're lucky. Tony's freaking out and got kicked out of the break room by Natasha because he couldn't stop pacing.

The god sighs. "In honesty, I do not know. I care greatly for my brother, but the knowledge of his heritage goes against everything I was taught. It is difficult."

"Dude, he's the exact same person, just blue. I mean, a little crazier than when you guys were prancing around Asgard, from what I've heard, but he's still Loki."

"It is like I no longer know him."

"You probably don't," Tony says. "Actually, you definitely don't. The stuff he saw? You don't recover from that. Ever. It changes you, and everyone keeps going on with their lives like normal, but you're constantly haunted by things that you can't understand. And I mean that totally literally—they don't obey the laws of nature, or of science, or anything. They shouldn't exist, _can't_ exist, but they… out there, they do. It fucks you up, _permanently._ I was there for, what, a minute or two? He was out there for _years,_ Thor. The fact that he's alive is a fucking miracle, and to be honest I have no idea how he still functions, let alone as sanely as he does."

He can't hold back a shudder, the memory suddenly too strong, and takes a breath to calm himself. The thought of being there so long sends a jolt of fear through him, and it's only with a great deal of effort that he steps back from it and avoids a panic attack.

The god looks confused and concerned.

"You have no idea what it does to you, Thor; you have to accept that. The man in there? He's not the same guy you grew up with. Sorry to break it to you. Loki's definitely still Loki, but to say he was torn in two out there would be the understatement of the century. He's a book ripped from its binding, dipped in turpentine, and tossed into the furnace of the realms as kindling. You have to meet him all over again, because as much as he is the same, he's been changed. Rewritten. A piece of faulty code that glitches the whole system by mistake."

"That will be no easy task."

"Nope. Which is why he might actually give you a chance if you put in the effort."

Thor sighs and stares at his folded hands, lost in thought.

"Oh," Tony adds after a minute. "It might be better if you don't mention the whole jötunn thing. Just act like everything's normal, because in that regard it is. He's just a little blue, da ba dee da ba die…"

—

"Mister Stark," comes a familiar voice, and his head snaps up.

At the same time, his stomach drops in fear.

"Get to the point," he snaps, and she nods curtly.

"It didn't go well–"

"Fuck no, he's _not_ dead!"

"I didn't say he was."

What?

"As I was saying, it didn't go well—the longer he's running on transfusions, the quicker his body is processing them, and he really did a number on his heart," M explains. "We managed to repair it to a degree, but it quickly became clear that it wouldn't be enough. Your offered aid became necessary. His body didn't take it well, which is why the operation took so long, but I believe—and this is only a guess—that he'll adapt to the change and live."

Tony lets out a sigh of relief. "How's he doing right now?"

"He's in post-op at the moment, but we're going to move him back into his room in a few minutes. We still can't say for sure if he'll wake up, so there's no point in keeping him under observation here as opposed to there. I assume you want to see him?"

"Yeah," he says with a laugh, the air no longer feeling quite so suffocating.

"And you, Mister Odinson?"

"No… I think I'll wait outside. He wouldn't want to see me right now."

—

The god looks worse off now than he did before, which is saying something, but he's alive. His heartbeat is stronger and more consistent, and that will help a thousand-fold.

Doc Strange has stuff to do elsewhere, which he gets; he says he'll be back in a week or so when Loki is in better shape.

After how scared he was (and he really needs to figure out why that keeps happening, because it's distinctly un-Tony behavior), he doesn't think twice about sleeping in the ICU again. With his knees tucked beneath him, he lays his head in his arms on the bed. They've finally let him take the cast off, which is awesome. He feels more useful now.

Half-sitting, half-lying there in the relative darkness (excluding the monitors and power lights scattered around), he looks up at the white-blue glow, which filters through the gauze taped the god's chest. It was the only way to keep Loki's heart beating strongly enough to take him off some of the machines in a week or two, once everything heals sufficiently and his body accepts the changes… but still.

Loki is going to kill him. Probably literally.

Not to mention resent him for the rest of his life, because looking through his phone like he'd been thinking about is _nothing_ compared to cutting through his sternum in order to implant a device he didn't ask for in his chest.

He knows first-hand what it's like to wake up like that—afraid, confused, and in pain—and he doesn't wish it on Loki at all. But at the same time… the idea of the god actually dying is something he can't wrap his head around. Loki started out as a variable, definitely. Now he's become a constant. An irrational one—maybe tau, or e, or something—but a constant nonetheless. Some mornings when he gets up, the god is already perched on a barstool having breakfast while he loses himself in a book. Currently, he's been working his way through _The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_, which means getting to watch some really hilarious expressions as he swings between laughter, intrigue, and serious concern for the human race. He likes the days like that, because there's nothing in particular to worry about. They can just _be,_ if that makes sense. Just sit around and enjoy the awesomeness of being alive. He's resigned himself to the fact that it might not happen again—Hell, the chances of the god even staying in the tower are slim to none.

Tony still doesn't regret the decision.

It hurts to see coming, though.

Not being able to help Loki drives him up the wall—he's _right there,_ and there's nothing he can do but wait and hope. Having run out of half-finished projects (that he can do remotely) a week or so ago, there's not really _anything_ to do, and as much as he likes the god, he's not especially entertaining while comatose. For a time he skims over information on Old Norse, until Steve comes in with a deck of cards and reminds him that Tony still owes him a game.

That game, a rather extended round of War, turns into a bit of a poker tournament when Natasha, then Clint show up, and it alls goes downhill straight into a pool of mayhem from there. Tony gets accused of stacking the deck (which he did _not,_ thank you very much, he only does that to screw with the god because it's hilarious, although it usually ends with salt in the sugar or some other stupid prank), but gets his payback when he catches Clint and Natasha cheating. In the meantime, Steve has ignored the chaos altogether and wins the game. It's a surprisingly even match-up—Steve played back in the army, the assassins play for fun and on missions, and Tony? Well, he used to spend plenty of time in Vegas.

Contrary to what he'd assumed when the assassins first showed up in the room, it's possibly one of the longest periods the four have gotten along outside of fighting bad guys, despite the fact that their supposed arch-enemy is in the room. He even manages to drag Thor in afterwards, although that ends in some really uncomfortable silence as he stares at his brother.

"He's…" the god seems lost for words, obviously having some form of internal struggle.

"A Na'vi? I mean, if you took away the ears, and nose, and tail, added a finger or two, and made 'em a little less gangly? Okay, so essentially that he's on the bluer end of the skin spectrum. Whatever. You know what I mean."

Thor just looks confused, and more than one of the other Avengers raise an eyebrow or snicker.

"Avatar? No? Oh shut up, I tried. Dude, he's just blue. C'mon, I'll deal you in."

"I feel like there's something I'm missing here," Steve comments, moving over so there's space for another chair around the nightstand-footrest-desk-card table thingy. He still doesn't know what to call it, it's multipurpose.

After a minute Thor seems to snap out of it a bit, and sits down. "He is of Jötunheim…" the god says as though he's still trying to process.

"Right. Asgardian history crash-course, courtesy of the incredible Tony Stark with a little info gleaned from chats with Sparky over here. Okay, maybe a lot. Like the whole thing. Whatever." He deals out a new hand, and tosses Thor a handful of chocolate coins. Apparently Clint's been holding out on them, because he has a whole stash of candy, booze, and coffee (the semi-drinkable stuff, not the normal crap SHIELD's got out here in the middle of nowhere) hidden away god-knows-where, and it's become a pretty intense fight to win them.

"So essentially, Odin Alldaddy is the inter-planetary Hitler, the Æsir are Nazis, and the Jötnar are Jews. Now, Thor and Loki—actually, I don't want to explain any of the poker variants, let's just play BS—are Hitlers little protégés who are being groomed to be the next dictator and go out and slay all the awful Jews, etcetera, etcetera. Now imagine that the day that Thor's gonna be crowned king-dictator whatever, a couple sneaky Jews get in and try to steal something that could give them a little more of a chance, and Thor, Loki, and their buddies prance off to chase them down like a good ol' manhunt."

"What are Nazis?"

"Is this what the Himmler reference was about?"

"Thor, I'll explain later. And yeah, Steve, just go with it for now. Anyway, while they're killing all the nasty Jews Loki accidentally finds out that, oh, hey! He's actually the kidnapped son of the Jewish leader dude! Cue emotional breakdown, lots of angst, and general bad shit 's essentially the rundown of this whole thing Thor's freaking out about like a teenage girl, if you scale it up to a slightly larger scale. Hey, no no no, I call bullshit-!"

"Too late, Clint took his turn," Natasha smirks, and looks him in the eye. "Peanut butter."

He throws a coin at her in revenge, although it kind of backfires since she just unwraps and eats the chocolate, then throws the crumpled gold foil back at him.

"So… Thor's a Nazi?" Steve verifies.

"A well-meaning Nazi. Also a Nazi who's very emotionally conflicted as to his Jewish-Nazi not-brother."

"That's really confusing and makes a lot of sense at the same time."

"Yep. Two kings."

The soldier raises an eyebrow. "Do I even need to call bullshit, or is it so obvious that everyone already knows? Pick up the cards, Stark."

"Dammit."

Natasha slaps a few cards onto the deck. "Three aces."

"No, it's Thor's turn!"

"It's called Cheat, Stark, I can steal the turn if I want to."

Thor glances around the table and shrugs. "It's not an issue."

Another pass 'round explains why the god had so little problem with it, because he grins and lays down his cards. "Four sevens."

"Oh, you asshole."

He just smiles and waits until Clint takes his turn. "What is it we're saying when we lie? Peanut butter?"

"Wait a sec, there's no way you could cheat on that! Who's got the other four?"

"I believe you do," Thor replies with a laugh. "You haven't looked through your hand very carefully."

Sure enough, on closer inspection he finds not one but _three_ fours. "What the hell did you play, then?"

The god turns over six cards, none of them the number he was supposed to play.

"How the _hell_ did nobody catch you on that? Natasha, you're supposed to be all super-assassin-ninja!"

"Growing up with Loki, one must learn to win games somehow, although most turned into more complications of this—seeing who was capable of cheating more without getting caught."

Tony scowls. "God dammit, stupid reindeer!"

"Goat," Thor comments, "not reindeer."

"What?"

"His helmet—they're horns, not antlers. Although I've found cow to be just as suiting, considering how bullheaded he can be."

He breaks down laughing. "Oh my god, this just got so much better. Someone call Life Alert, help, I can't breathe!"

"That's not how Life Alert works, Stark," Clint chips in, "and I'm not calling an ambulance. I guess I can put you on the phone with the salespeople, though. I'm sure they'd love to sell you one of the pendant things. Give me your tablet, I'll hook you up."

"You really don't want to do that, Stark. Every ad on every website will be the exact same yellow Life Alert one with the woman who's fallen, in every size, for the next decade of your life," Natasha warns.

"Why does it sound like you know from experience?"

She scowls. "Long story."

—

_"'m sorry, please don' hate me…"_

The god's words echo in his head as he speaks the same back to him now. "I'm sorry, Loki, please don't hate me for this… just let me give you another chance, okay?"

A shadow falls over him as the hall light is blocked by the man he's been waiting for. "Are you ready?"

"Yeah, 'course. You want me in here, or out in the hall again?"

"Whatever you think best, though he may wake with less fear to a familiar presence." The sorcerer sits on the edge of the bed, hands hovering on either side of the god's head. "If you choose to remain, I would advise you to be quiet and still—this is delicate work, as even the farthest depths of his subconscious fight heavily against any presence even close nearby. His mental control is incredible, but it makes for far more difficulty in bringing him back."

Tony nods and leans against the wall, watching silently as the man closes his eyes and falls silent.

—

Strange jerks back, expression pained, making Tony jump.

"You okay?"

The sorcerer nods, rubbing his temples. "He is… _difficult_ to work with."

"But it worked, right?"

"It's not black and white, so the rest is up to him, but the pathway has been set."

Tony sighs in relief. "Thanks. Seriously, I owe you one."

"I'll keep that in mind," he says, between the two of them. "Would you prefer to have time alone while he wakes? It may not be immediate, but within the next ten minutes if he does."

"…and if not?"

"Then he'll remain in a coma until his body shuts down, either by itself or life support being stopped."

With a shudder, he takes a seat where the sorcerer had been perched a minute earlier, and looks down at the god. "Probably best if you're not here—he likes to break bones when he freaks out."

"You sound like you know from experience."

Tony points to his left side. "Pretty sure between my jaw, my arm, and the surgery for my chest, I'm half cyborg by now."

Strange raises an eyebrow as he walks toward the door. "I'll give you some space, then. Do try not to get severely maimed."

"No promises."

Those ten minutes are the longest ten of his life, as he waits for the god to wake. Because he _is_ going to.

They drag on, marked by the steady, quiet tick of a clock across the room and the now-familiar beep of the ECG in the background. It's softer after he asked about getting it turned down, just another marker of time now that his heart's evened out, although the rhythm is fairly different than a human's would be. Still the quick lines of the electric aid, but the polarization looks wacky as hell. They tried it out on Thor and his is more similar to Loki's, pointing to the possibility that it's likely his natural rhythm, but it's still weird to see. Not to say that it's definitely being measured right, either, because like before, their bodies are structured a bit differently (and the whole tissue-density issue apparently makes it damn hard to operate on them, too).

Ten minutes pass, then twelve, then seventeen… there's no response from the god.

—

"Loki?"

_No, nononono…_

Tony runs a hand gently through the god's hair, trying not to tear up, because they did _not_ come this far only for him to die now.

"C'mon, you asshole. Don't you dare. Don't you _dare,_ you hear me?"

He rests his forehead against Loki's, eyes closed.

"Please, Rudolph…"

Nothing, not even a flicker of awareness or life.

He sits back, holding his hand and crying quietly.

Six minutes later, the god flatlines.


End file.
